The Legend of Phoenix Hollow

The wind gusted dry across the parched valley, and carried the far-off, musty scent of danger to the few remaining to smell it. The herds did not come this year, and the hunters were starving. The land had grown unforgiving. There was no water, no shade, no food. Only a handful of proud hunters remained, prisoners to neighboring prides who jealously guarded bordering land.

As the day grew shorter, the musty smell grew stronger. The hunters grew restless - this scent had come before. The eldest of the pride knew they must move - the flames would come tonight.

Families gathered at dusk, and moved briskly toward the hills. The eastern sky was already aglow with the rushing flame, and the air was quickly becoming thick. Mothers nudged along their young - there was no time for play. They must stay well ahead of the flames.

As they climbed the hills, they met with no quarrel - the hunters of the out-lands had deserted long ago, wanting no truck with fire. As the elder looked back, he saw what they had mercifully escaped.

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Fire raged through the once-verdant valley, licking along the arid ground, meeting no resistance. Stealthy fingers of flame wrapped around tree trunks and climbed into the canopy, leaving only blacked ash in its wake. Nothing was spared. Great, black billows of smoke and debris blotted out the moon while the air in the valley grew hot - much too hot to soothe burning lungs. Stragglers succumbed.

The pride reached a neighboring mountaintop, and surveyed the scene - their home was being destroyed. The entire valley was aglow, from mountain to mountain, like a great fiery pit of destruction.

Then came the rains.

First a drop here and there, then suddenly a torrent, as if the storms that hadn’t come all summer were all coming at once. The wind gusted stronger, only this time, it blew the fire-quenching life-water from the sky. The flames battled on, but they were no match for the flood. Rivers once again flowed from the mountaintops, and watered the valley floor. It was as if the Earth itself had willed an end to the seasons-long drought.

The sun rose over a soggy, blackened landscape. There was only quiet - no living thing had yet returned to the remains of the valley. Broken charcoal stumps offered no shelter from wind and rain, and the lifeless ground was suffocated under ash. Summer ended, autumn came and went, and winter stayed. Yet no one returned.

One late spring morning, a lone bird flew over the valley, surveying the scene. There was green here! Pools of crystal-clear water! Tender, young grass, pushing its way through the soil, skinny saplings taking root where their ancestors fell! Insects were busy turning the earth so the flowers might grow! The bird reported back to the flock that there was life in the valley once again.

Soon after, the herds returned, grazing on the bright green shoots and wallowing in the cool, clear water. All was peaceful, all was calm - until the alert was sounded among them - there were hunters about! Eyes darting to the west, the young and weak trembled, for trekking down the mountainside, were the royalty of this valley, the inheritors of this land. It was the return of the pride.

Although this beautiful valley had fallen upon adversity and barely survived tragedy, it rose once again to become a verdant fountain of life.

And that is the legend of Phoenix Hollow.

Designed and copyrighted for his own amusement by Peter Burgess, 2010.