A PHOENIX IS BORN

Story and Images by Robert E. Berge

“Blueskin” Jack, as his mentor

called him, crouched behind a thicket far

enough away from the forest glade that he

would not be seen. He pressed his hands

against the damp, muddy earth and closed

his eyes. The heady freshness of the

forest filled his nostrils; chorusing

crickets and the occasional grunt and

growl of night scavengers met his ears.

The sound of someone

approaching. Ahead and to the left, in the direction of the clearing where his mentor waited

silently. Jack opened his eyes and peered through the darkness. He saw a faint light bobbing

through the trees like a will-o-wisp, casting ghostly beams and long thing shadows amidst the tall

trees. Lelania, The Innkeeper’s daughter, carried a lantern to the midnight tryst with Jack’s

mentor, Edward Worrington, aka, The Black Raven.

Edward Worrington was a highwayman of the finest caliber. His renown had waxed

greatly over the past few years since the execution of the King. Few save Jack and a handful of

others knew his true identity.

He owed his appellation to the beaked Venetian masque he wore while on ‘duty’. That

and the fact that he wore only black, as he would say, in mourning for the country that was lost

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upon the execution of the King. The white lace at his throat and wrists, and the silver buckles of

the belts across his chest and waist were all that contrasted with his dark accoutrements.

Elegance and grace toward his patrons (especially those of the fairer sex)- travelers along

the road with more wealth than sense; savageness and fury toward his sworn enemies - any

Parliamentarian, pious or otherwise, fool enough to travel the Heath’s Highway without a full

regiment at his back. Feared by some, loved by many, respected by all. His fallen enemies and

gracious clients, as he called them, were bound together only by a single black feather he left

with them at the end of any engagement.

Jack cast his gaze quickly back to the silhouetted form of his mentor. High astride his

mare he sat, the perfect image of a rogue cavalier, the poetic symbol of a gentleman robber.

The steely light of the moon filled the glade callously pale; this was a Puritan’s moon.

That was what bothered Jack. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his mentor’s judgment of Lelania, nor

Lelania herself, but there was just something in the air tonight. A vague apprehension he

couldn’t quite name.

Even as a boy he had possessed it; an almost sixth sense that warned of coming danger. It

had rolled upon him the day his father died on the fields of Naseby, just as it did tonight. He had

attempted to warn his father of impending doom just as he had tried to warn the Raven earlier

tonight. On both accounts, his prophecies had gone unheeded. Only this time, his mother was not

there to prevent him from doing something about it. He shuddered at the thought of losing the

Raven, a second father to him.

Jack continued to watch as Lelania entered the cool glade. A moment’s pause and the

Raven dismounted. Lelania placed her lantern on the dewy grass. Then in a rush, he swept her up

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in his arms; her sky blue dress pressed against his black attire. She squealed in delight. He set her

down, still holding her in his arms.

“I’ve missed you my love,” she said. “I pray that soon we won’t be forced to meet under

such conditions.”

The Raven ran a gloved finger down her pale cheek and twirled a lock of her dark hair

round it. Then, in a deep, rich voice that frequently made ladies of good reputation tremble, he

said, “’Twil’ not be long I promise. I’m after a prize soon that shall permit us to a fine living

north, where Cromwell’s fist is not as strong.”

“And my father? They threatened to close his Inn yester night, on account of his serving

gin to his guests.” She responded.

“Aye? Is that the cause of your summonance tonight? Fear not. Fie on Cromwell and his

henchmen. And your father may indeed accompany us north.” He said soothingly, stroking her

dark hair. Then, gaining momentum, “I have received intelligence that in a week’s time a cargo

of gold intended for the rebel Army’s pay shall make its way along the Heath toward London…”

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps his intuition had failed him this time. For that he

was thankful. He decided to give his mentor and Lelania their privacy. He turned and began to

creep back toward the Highway where his horse waited. He’d meet Edward later at one of the

underground alehouses not yet discovered by the puritans. Then he heard a crack. The snap of a

twig, barely audible over the Raven and Lelania’s conversation. Then, the rank sweat of

Roundheads. His heart began to thud. He must warn the Raven!

He didn’t get the chance.

Jack drew the pistol he had tucked in his belt. Then, to his right, in a semi-circle around

the glade, tongues of fire licked the darkness. The Raven’s horse neighed and reared. Jack

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discharged his pistol in the direction of the fire and yelled to the Raven, “Roundheads!” He

spared a glance toward the glade.

The Raven had thrown himself in front of Lelania and fired back at his enemies with his

own flintlocks; a savage beast outnumbered and cornered by hunters, ready and spoiling for a

fight.

Another volley. The Raven was hit. He stumbled back, threw down his pistols and drew

two more, firing again. The odor of gunpowder filled the air. The Roundheads charged from the

forest darkness, shouting their vicious cries to God.

Jack ran toward the clearing, his dagger drawn. If it should end here he would give good

account of himself and let his blade drink its fill on Roundhead blood.

The Raven, gleaming rapier drawn, faced his attackers. The butts of their muskets and

what blades they carried swung wildly but failed to connect. The dark cavalier’s sword flashed in

wicked silver arcs, a dance of death to any it chose as partner. He called out, “Blueskin! Their

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horses!”

Jack stopped mid-stride, torn. Run to disperse the Roundhead horses, which were no

doubt posted at the entrance to the path into the forest and the clearing, or die cleanly, nobly, at

the Raven’s side.

Three Roundheads already lay groaning and wounded in the clearing. Four remained. The

Raven called them on, baiting them to taste his steel. Lelania stood frozen, apparently in shock.

“Halt!” a graveled voice commanded. The remaining four Roundheads backed away from

the Raven cautiously. Their commander, a tall, gaunt man dressed in a custom-tailored black

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puritan’s uniform emerged from the shadows. He removed his lobster-tailed helmet and let it fall

to the ground.

“I’ve been looking forward to gutting you Raven. You’ve just added to my treasure in

Heaven. The Lord Protector will also be pleased that you will not be troubling God’s highways

after tonight. I’ll be made captain for this.” The said smugly.

“Then come Shelton. Let this be our final act! I’ll spill your blood for the rest of your

dogs to lap up, and then lay them down. Come now. Claim your prize! If you dare!” The Raven

responded, brandishing his sword.

Shelton threw his head back in hollow laughter. “I would love to do it that way, but I

prefer my meat dead first.” Then he pulled out a pistol and shot the Raven. The shot hit him in

the hip, sending him reeling back into Lelania. She screamed and stumbled, catching the Raven’s

weight.

Shelton drew his sword and approached, intent on finishing the kill.

The Raven, with tremendous effort drew himself back up to full height, though favoring

his left side. He glanced sidelong at Lelania, “Fear not my love. These dogs…shall be…brought

to heel.” He said, wincing. “Though I suggest you run.” He turned back to Shelton, sword raised

again. “Come foul traitor!”

Shelton tilted his head as if to look past the Raven. Then Jack saw it. Lelania held a short

blade in her hand. Jack started, “No! Raven! Behind you!” Shelton and his men all spun in Jack’s

direction. Thankfully he remained well enough hidden by the forest shadows for them to know

his exact location. Lelania, startled, buried the dagger deep in the Raven’s back.

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 The Highwayman’s back arched and he cried out, stumbling forward. “Blueskin, go

now!” he managed to utter. Pain and heartbreak mixed with black hatred and ire ringing in his

voice.

Though it took every inch of fortitude within him, Jack obeyed. He ran back toward the

entrance to the path where the Roundhead horses were surely being kept. Behind him he heard

Shelton’s command, angered and panicked “You, you, get that cur!”

What happened next, Jack could not be sure. As he ran, he heard the desperate neighing

of Edward’s horse followed by the clatter of hooves and angry shouts. More shots. Still he ran,

cursing all women, rebels and the cold Puritan God. The heat of his wrath would blast them all

away. This he swore to himself.

Captain Ezekial Shelton was troubled. He rubbed his dark eyes and ran his fingers trough

his lank pre-maturely white hair. White was the colour of purity. It helped to remind him that

even when his enemies pressed about him, God had his hand firmly laid upon him. A messenger

had just informed him that a coach bearing pay for the London regiments had been held up last

night by a highwayman clothed in black. More disturbing were reports that the robber, after

successfully tying, gagging, and stripping its escort, may he hang high from the Tyburn tree, had

left a single black feather as a memento. Impossible! Someone was trying to embarrass him;

someone was envious of his promotion. When he found out who, he would deal with them as any

common criminal. Best to pray on this.

Shelton grabbed a candle-lamp and climbed the narrow stairs that led to his chamber on

the second floor of the inn, leaving the men under his new command to their conversations. They

watched him anxiously as he departed. Shelton knew that look. Those lads are up to no good, he

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thought. They best not indulge in the drink or they would feel the lash of his stern displeasure in

the morning.

Once on the second floor, he rounded the stair rail and made for the open door at the end

of the hall, his footfalls echoing on the worn wooden floor. Their duty was to close alehouses

dammit! Eradicate the gambling shacks, the houses ill-repute, and all other dens of iniquity - not

to partake in their lasciviousness!

Shadows jumped like spirits against the walls, and when he entered his room, they grew

and lengthened into deformed shapes. He did not notice that one of them had remained deathly

still.

Ezekial placed his lamp on the stand next to his square bed. He removed his hat, pistols,

sword, and placed them delicately on the

hard mattress; like sacred relics on an

altar. After all, these were the instruments

God had granted him, with which he

would accomplish His will. Then he knelt

down, closed his eyes, and prayed.

“Dear Lord,” he said with his

bitter slash of a mouth, “If it hath been thy will to raise your unworthy servant from the rank of

parish gardener to captain in thy most holy army, then hear my plea. Mine enemies presage ever

closer to me. It would seem that for every one I cut down, another arises. May you grant that

their blood wash over my hands, as the blood of your Son hath washed over my soul. May the

kings and princes of the earth bow down and be made low, and if not, let their necks be severed

again and again by the edge of your hand. Bless the new instruments of my trade. May they be as

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successful in weeding your human garden as my shovel and spade were in my former life. Grant

me dear God, the strength and courage to lead my men, and lead them not into temptation…” He

paused and opened his eyes. What was that? He caught the rustle of the drapes out of the corner

of his eye. Merely the wind. A storm was gathering; he could smell the moisture in the air. He

would close the casements in a moment.

Closing his eyes again, he continued.

“Bless the Lord Protector Lord…” He stopped.

Something was wrong. He opened one eye and spied that his

sword and pistols were no longer before him. He sharply turned

his head. Two pistol muzzles stared down at him.

Shelton’s eyes followed the course of the pistol-bearer’s

arms until his faced turned as white as his hair.

“What’s wrong? Seen a ghost?”

“You. You can’t be alive. No man could’ve survived

that!” Ezekial gasped.

The Raven nodded. Shelton desperately searched for words, a way out, his weapons, but

none were forthcoming. He heard a muffled burst of laughter from the first floor.

The dark highwayman glared at him from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. Finally he

said, “Stand and deliver. Your money or your life, and I pray you have no money.”

Ezekial narrowed his eyes at the Raven. There was something different about him. Some

measure of nerve returned “Go then. Take my life Raven. My men will have yours.” He said

defiantly. “If you’ve returned from hell to take your revenge, then I go to God with a clean soul.

I shall fear no evil.”

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 The Raven’s lips tightened and twisted.

Shelton straightened his back. Were the Raven’s hands shaking? Then as he peered

closer, he understood. He had hunted this cur for too long not know that this wasn’t the Royalist

knave who had proven so tenacious an adversary. “There’s something about you though. You’re

not as tall as I recall. And your hair is…shorter.” He said, raising an eyebrow. “I know.” That

hollow laugh. “You’re the lad that drove our horses away! You’re no Raven!” Shelton grinned

like a jackal and launched himself at his foe. If this boy imposter shot him, at least his men

would be alerted, if not, he knew he could take him down handily.

The Puritan swung his fists with righteous indignation expecting them to connect or to be

shot in the process. Instead he found himself temporarily lost in a sea of black folds and silver

buckles. Then a hard blow to the back of his skull induced a bright flash behind his eyes before

his face collided into the hard wooden floor.

A boot heel dug into his back and pinned him to the ground. Ezekial groaned, “I’ll have

you gibbeted by dawn. My men-!” He heard the cocking of a pistol.

“-You’re men are otherwise occupied, drinking and gambling away the pay they received

earlier today. It came only with the curious admonishment to mention nothing of it to you. By

order of the Protector himself” he said, musingly. “It may have gotten to them anyway in the

end, but I quickened the process.”

“By God! I’ll do it myself. Give me a weapon!” Ezekial spat. He could see his own

weapons laid on a chair, barely over an arm’s length away.

Then through clenched teeth his captor answered hotly, “You are correct however, about

that one thing. I am not the Raven. Though that secret dies with you.

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 “The man you knew as the Raven now lies buried according to his dying wish, in a blue

coat, the colours of a King’s Regiment. That coat I took from my father’s corpse after Naseby to

remember him. When I returned from that field of slaughter, I found my mother bruised and

broken by your God’s Army. Her nose cut by you swine. Slit like a common prostitute! My life

ended that day and I ventured to London. There the Raven found me, an honest tailor’s son

turned footpad in the rookeries. He took me in. Instructed me in the laws of the gentleman’s

highway. He became a second father to me and gave me another life. Then along came you and

that witch he trusted. Both in league and bonded by deceit and treachery. And so with his

passing, I died again. Captain Shelton, I am not the Black Raven. I am one now born for a third

time…I am the Black Phoenix!” Thunder boomed and echoed outside. The storm had arrived.

Wind and rain gusted through the window blowing out the candle by the bedside. “Now!” the

young highwayman’s voice echoed the passionate thunder, matured beyond its years, “Stand and

Deliver!!!”

The foot on Ezekial’s back was removed and he hastily scrambled to grab one of his

pistols. He would dispatch this upstart straight to hell, God willing! He swung around in a half

crouch and fired where he thought his dark assailant lingered.

Two shots were heard in the common room below where Roundhead soldiers in red

jackets laughed and joked. When they eventually investigated the source of noise, they found one

round lodged in the wall near the window ledge, and the other buried deeply in Captain Ezekial

Shelton’s cold lifeless breast. Laid carefully overtop, was a single black feather.

Jack rode hard, impervious to the heavy torrents of rain. The thunder and lightning

produced a furious blend of power and satisfaction, matching the intensity of the adrenal fever

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that lit up his soul. He decided to leave Lelania for now. She would be gripped with fear enough

upon hearing of Shelton’s demise. Let her tremble for the moment of his coming. Ever restless.

Never able to lower her guard; even for an instant.

It was enough for now that he had struck a blow for the Raven and for what the puritans

had done; to his country, to his family, to him. More would come soon enough, that he vowed.

All is fair in love and war. And his war had only just begun.

Notes:

Just finished reading it and took a few notes. Maybe some of my notes are crap so I'll
read it again in a couple of days. I really liked it and enjoyed some of your "lyrics" - cool stuff a
few egs...
"...tongues of fire licked the darkness..."
"...let his blade drink its fill..."
"...sword flashed in wicked silver arcs, a dance of death for any it chose to partner..."
"...not to partake in their lasciviousness!"
Awesome! Sounds like you've done a fair bit of research on the era etc, probably thru your own
rec. reading. Authenticity is important for this sort of story, especially with dialogue. Great hook
at end. Rounds it nicely and intros a cool character. Anyway, as I read it these were some
impressions but yeah a second read may nullify 'em.

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You've used "molten" as a noun to describe Jack's face after L's betrayal. not certain but pretty
sure its more of an adjective. "His face burned like molten and tears of rage flowed like crooked
mercurial lines fire back along his temples" whole sentence needs attention.
After Jack flees, story cuts straight to Shelton expressing various concerns. Later on we know
but initially it's unclear as to whether this is before or after Raven's death. Also when talking of
the shadows in his room "He did not notice that one of them had remained deathly still." Again
this alerts the reader to a presence of danger, distracting attention from Shelton's prayers which
are good stuff but the reader is too busy anticipating the iminent conflict with the deathly still
shadow.
The line "Shelton desperately searched for words, a way out, his weapons, but none were
forthcoming" - bit clumsy?
As Jack and Shelton grapple "Then a hard blow to the back of his skull induced a bright flash
before his face collided into the hard wooden floor. " - its apparent straight afterwards, but as you
read it you think - bright flash? = gun. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. Maybe "he saw stars
burst/flash beneath his suddenly tightly closed eyes" sort of thing.
Great finish - mythology of the people's hero lives on. Maybe call the story "The Black Phoenix"
instead.
"Jack’s face burned like a brand as he rode" sounds like anger. wouldn't he feel relief or
satisfaction after vengenace?
Also just thought - if Lelania's dad is getting fucked over by the puritans, why does she aid
them? That also could be addressed in a further adventure.

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