Being True to Our Self

To hear her sing, they came from places far flung. Some buzzed and flapped; others skipped and hopped. The rest rode bareback atop crocs that loved to bop. Her melodies made the branches sway.

 

And her name? Phoenix Bird , Songstress of the Forest Glade.

 

 

 

 

 

One day, into their company there stole a worm disguised as a fan: a cold-hearted fellow called Iggo the Atrocious.

 

“Why me...” quoth he, “condemned to wriggle and squirm for eternity, and be snagged on thorns and rubbed in the dirt?” Irked by a sense of how unfair this all was, Iggo longed to take out his revenge. What was worse, looking up, he spotted a creature who was perfect for the purpose: Cuckoo Bird.

 

 

 

 

 

Breaking into Cuckoo’s inner world, Iggo hissed words at her till she fell under his spell. “Lissten my Sspecial Pet... Phoenixss is a sspoiled sshow-off in need of knocking from her perchssh!” Iggo’s jealousy swirled around in Cuckoo’s head, till she got so disturbed she mistook it as hers.

 

 

“Work” suddenly seemed to Cuckoo to be a dirty word. She strutted up to Phoenix. “Hello Duck,” she ventured, “fancy a free headscarf?” Quick as a flash, Cuckoo had Phoenix swaddled and wrapped. “Gosh, you look gorgeous!” she jeered.

 

 

 

 

 

Inside Cuckoo’s thoughts, Iggo purred with a clockwork whir. “Watch,” he observed, “how Little Miss Songbird has got her just deserts... and lost her chirp.”

 

 

 

 

 

Before she knew it, Phoenix Bird was stunned into subservience. Her sense of who she was had become jumbled and blurred. What could be worse than to see your identity robbed, and your true self obscured?

 

 

By this stage, Phoenix had emerged as a serf. As for her ears, these now sported donkey curves. “Cheer up Donkey Bird,” her tormentor blurted, “the rules round here are simple as dirt: losers like you must shut up and serve . Now let me do my worst...”

 

 

 

 

 

At that, Cuckoo Bird went to work on Phoenix’s nest, rearranging the decor, and launching all her precious Phoenix eggs overboard.

 

 

 

 

 

“Hoo hoo, hee hee,” crowed Cuckoo jubilantly after laying an egg or three of her own. “Now then, Dearie... domesticity ain’t my thing. So do be a sweetie and raise me a family in that cosy home of yours...”

 

 

 

 

 

Phoenix sat dutifully over eggs painted as hers, not realising the treachery of being installed into slavery, and volunteered for a new career - as Cuckoo Bird’s nursery nurse.

 

 

One night, however, Phoenix woke from a dream that spilled the beans about her new reality. From inside of her, there welled up a cri de cœur: “Let me be!”

 

 

Nevertheless, still they clung on tenaciously, those donkey features of hers.

 

 

 

 

 

Recalling Owl’s wise words, Phoenix remembered to speak what she knew to be true with only more and more courage. So again she spoke, only with new force: “I AM PHOENIX, SO LET ME BE!”

 

 

At this, the trees shook from their boughs to their leaf tips. And lo! There in the forest clearing appeared Phoenix , a diva released from captivity.

 

 

Long before, Iggo had fled the scene. Yet, such was Cuckoo’s grief that Owl stretched out a wing of sympathy. “Do not despair,” said Owl, “for the harm caused was not really yours, but that of a scheming worm who’ll be seen around here no more.”

 

 

 

 

 

Phoenix’s eggs hatched into beautiful singing chicks. Then came the greatest comeback concert in all of history.