Death of the Phoenix

Elishat viewed everything—from the northern hills to the vast southern plain to the pine forest in the west—as holdings within her domain. To her, the hill was merely a place to plant her feet. She kept her plans to herself, but in her mind, it was only a matter of time before all of the surrounding land would be hers. Already, the planners had laid out the footprint of neighborhoods following the contours of the hill. They imagined blocks of narrow row houses three or four stories high. Each home would have a central atrium to bring light into the inner rooms, a cistern for collecting rainwater, and rooms designated for bathing, cooking, and sleeping. A long corridor would connect the front and back doors so the residents wouldn’t have to walk all the way around the block to get to the back of the house. It would take months to cut the stone, dry the mud brick, and haul enough lumber back from the forest to build the homes. In the meantime, the people cobbled together a patchwork village with woven reed mats for floors, tapestry awnings for ceilings, and flimsy palm frond walls.

Construction was going as planned until a night of torrential rain inundated the half-built city and turned it into a sloppy stew. The following morning, the people awoke, soaked and miserable, dismantled their mud-spattered walls, sopping ceilings, and drenched floors, and laid them out to dry. When they were done, they scraped the mud off their sandals as best they could and sought out their neighbors to discuss their predicament.

“The rainy season is nearly upon us.”

“The gods may send soft rains or wicked storms, either way, we need to prepare.”

“But we can’t cut enough lumber or bake mud brick fast enough to build our houses in time.”

“Why don’t we move back onto the ships?”

One of the many sailors enjoying a quiet life aboard steered the conversation, “The ships can’t protect us against the weather—and they are uncomfortable for sleeping.”

The passengers groaned at the memory.

Hannu piped up, “Maybe the ships could help us in another way.”

“How so?”

“Yes, speak up.”

“One of the ships could be dismantled to provide lumber for temporary shelters.”

An uneasy silence followed. No one wanted any of the ships taken apart, but neither did they want to spend the upcoming rainy season at the mercy of the elements. They reluctantly took Hannu’s suggestion to Bitias who scoffed at the idea but agreed to take it to the captains of the ships. The captains were outraged to think that one of them might lose his vessel, his heart and soul, his reason for living. They argued vehemently against the plan but in the end were forced to admit that dismantling a ship would be in everyone’s best interest. As to which ship should be taken apart, that, they said, was a decision for Admiral Bitias.

Amaal and Hannu and Uru stood with the anxious crowd at the top of the hill. Bitias barked a few words about the recent soaking rain and the terrible but necessary decision to which all had agreed. He called for straws, two long, one short, and held them in his fist with just the three tips visible. “The captain who draws the short straw will surrender his ship to the city.”

 The people moved in closer, linked arms, folded their hands in prayer. The captains stepped forward in the order in which they had sailed at sea. The Arbiter went first and drew a long straw. Her passengers started to celebrate but quickly stifled their elation as the fate of their neighbors and friends was still unknown. Every eye followed the captain of the Nebula as he stepped forward to choose from the two remaining straws. He pointed to them, left, right, left, several times, touched one with the tip of his finger, then quickly drew out the other and held it up high for all to see. It was a long straw.

Bitias opened his fist to reveal the remaining, short straw. The loser was the Phoenix. The captain bowed his head and covered his face to shield himself from the horrible fate raining down on him. It was bad enough to have witnessed the almighty gods bringing disaster to the Sage. To suffer obliteration at the hands of humans was unspeakable. Amaal, Hannu, Uru and their fellow voyagers gathered around him. The Tillerman said that the Phoenix had been their faithful ark. Amaal and Uru stood nearest the Oarswoman. She put an arm around each of them. They allowed themselves to be drawn in, but it was little consolation for having lost the vessel that had carried them like a womb to their new life.

Bitias held his hand up to quiet the crowd.

“The passengers and crew of the Phoenix are understandably distraught. I, too, am terribly disappointed to lose the second of the vessels in my fleet. They are like children to me.” He paused and swallowed hard and fought to speak through the trembling of emotion. “Over time, we will build more ships. It won’t be the same, I know, but the beauty is that the Phoenix will be seen everywhere in the new city, so let’s bring her ashore. Let’s bring her home.”

The whole heartbreaking process took several days. With every plank they wrested from her, her passengers told stories from the voyage and uttered words of gratitude for her seaworthiness. In addition to an armful of lumber, each household claimed some little part of the ship—a piece of sailcloth for an awning, a length of rope for hanging a drape, a metal ring for a door handle. With the Tillerman’s permission, the ship’s carpenter rescued the wide steering oar. He set to work carving a border of hibiscus flowers in the thick wood. In the center, he engraved an inscription that read, simply, ‘QART-HADASHT.’ When the Phoenix passengers saw it, they paraded the oar to the bottom of the hillside and installed it as the entrance to the city.

It wasn’t until the last splinter of the ship was dispersed into the encampment that the Phoenix passengers could bring themselves to say goodbye. Her sailors never did. They spoke of her like a beautiful woman who had met a grizzly demise at the hands of wild animals. But the death of the Phoenix was only part of their sorrow. When the sailors looked out at the sea, dark under a starry dome of night, or sparkling under a dazzling sun by day, they longed for their old seafaring way of life.

The household items constructed from her parts kept the Phoenix alive all over town. The bits and pieces were put to use in the heart of every home. People came to refer to them variously as “the Phoenix box,” or “the Phoenix awning,” or “the Phoenix bucket.” Still, they never did get used to counting only two ships in the bay.

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