Firebird
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 12: Growing Into Destiny
1868 - Five Years After Red Hawk’s Death
The summer sun beat down on the prairie, turning the grass golden and making the air shimmer with heat. Firebird stood in the shade of a cottonwood tree, watching Tall Elk practice with his small bow.
He was six years old now, tall for his age and sturdy, with his father’s dark eyes and serious expression. The toy bow White Bull had carved for him years ago had been replaced with a real one—child-sized, but functional. And the boy was already showing remarkable skill.
“Keep your elbow up,” Firebird called out. “Don’t drop it when you release.”
Tall Elk adjusted his stance, drew the bowstring back to his cheek, and let the arrow fly. It hit the target—a bundle of grass tied to a stake—dead center.
“Good!” Firebird praised. “Very good. Again.”
The boy grinned, his whole face lighting up with pride, and retrieved his arrow to shoot again.
Firebird felt her heart swell watching him. He was so much like Red Hawk—not just in appearance, but in spirit. Determined. Focused. Natural with weapons. Already the other boys looked up to him, followed his lead in their games of warriors and enemies.
He would be a great man someday. She could see it already.
“Mama! Mama, watch me!”
Firebird turned to see Little Bird running toward her, her small legs pumping, her long dark hair flying behind her. At five years old, she was all energy and brightness, constantly moving, constantly chattering, constantly getting into things.
“I’m watching, baby. What are you going to show me?”
Little Bird stopped at Firebird’s feet and proceeded to execute a series of clumsy cartwheels that ended with her landing in a heap, laughing.
“Did you see? Did you see?”
“I saw. You’re getting better.” Firebird reached down to help her up, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at her damaged muscles. Even after five years, certain motions still hurt. But the pain was familiar now, manageable. Part of her daily life.
“Can I try shooting the bow?” Little Bird asked, eyeing her brother’s practice.
“When you’re bigger. Right now, your job is to watch and learn.”
Little Bird pouted but accepted this, flopping down in the grass to watch Tall Elk with intense concentration. She watched everything with that same intensity, Firebird had noticed. The child missed nothing, remembered everything, asked questions about things no five-year-old should notice.
She was special. Different. Firebird had known it for a while, but she didn’t yet know what kind of different.
Morning Star approached from the village, carrying a water skin and some dried berries. She’d been helping Gentle Rain tan hides, and her dress was stained with the work.
“You’ve been out here for hours,” Morning Star said, handing Firebird the water. “You should rest.”
“I’m fine. Tall Elk is doing so well—I want to keep working with him while he’s focused.”
“Mama, I’m hungry,” Tall Elk announced, his practice session apparently concluded.
“Come eat, then. Both of you.”
They settled in the shade, sharing the berries and water. Tall Elk ate with single-minded purpose, refueling for whatever came next. Little Bird picked at her food, distracted, her eyes distant.
“What are you thinking about?” Morning Star asked her, smoothing the child’s hair.
“I don’t know,” Little Bird said slowly. “I keep seeing ... things. But they’re not here. They’re somewhere else. Or somewhen else. I don’t know how to say it.”
Firebird and Morning Star exchanged glances. They’d been waiting for this. Morning Star had the gift—the ability to see things that hadn’t happened yet, to dream true dreams. And Little Bird was Morning Star’s niece, shared her blood. It made sense that the gift might pass to her.
But five years old seemed very young to start having visions.
“What kind of things do you see?” Morning Star asked gently.
Little Bird frowned, trying to find words for something beyond her understanding. “I see ... fire. But not our fire. A big fire. And people running. And...” She stopped, her small face troubled. “And crying. Lots of crying.”
“When do you see these things?” Firebird asked. “When you’re sleeping?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes when I’m awake too. Like right now.” Little Bird’s eyes had that distant look again. “I see the fire. I see—”
She stopped suddenly, her whole body going rigid. Her eyes rolled back slightly, and for a terrifying moment, she seemed to stop breathing.
“Little Bird!” Firebird grabbed her daughter, and Morning Star’s hands joined hers.
Then, just as suddenly, the child gasped and came back, blinking in confusion. “What happened?”
“You went away for a moment,” Morning Star said, her voice carefully calm though her hands were shaking. “What did you see?”
“The fire. It’s close. It’s...” Little Bird pointed toward the eastern edge of the village. “It’s there. In the old tipi. The one nobody uses.”
Firebird looked where she was pointing. The abandoned tipi had been sitting empty since old Gray Wolf had died last winter. His family had moved away, and no one had claimed the structure yet.
“There’s no fire there, baby,” Firebird said gently. “See? No smoke.”
“Not yet,” Little Bird said with certainty. “But soon. Today. The fire is coming.”
Morning Star stood abruptly. “Stay with the children,” she told Firebird, and ran toward the village.
Firebird watched her go, then looked down at Little Bird, who had already gone back to eating berries as if nothing had happened.
“Little Bird, listen to me. This is important. Do you see the fire happening right now?”
“No. Later. When the sun is there.” She pointed to a position in the western sky—late afternoon, maybe two or three hours from now.
“And you’re sure it’s that tipi?”
“Yes. I see it very clear. The old gray one with the hole in the side.”
That was Gray Wolf’s tipi, all right. It had a tear in the hide covering that no one had bothered to repair.
Tall Elk had been listening with wide eyes. “Is Little Bird magic?” he asked.
“Not magic,” Firebird said carefully. “But she sees things. Like Morning Star does. It’s a gift from Maheo.”
“Will I have a gift?”
“You already do. You’re going to be a great warrior. That’s your gift.”
This satisfied Tall Elk, who went back to examining his bow.
Morning Star returned with Chief Tall Bull and several warriors. Firebird stood to meet them, Little Bird clinging to her leg.
“Your wife says the child had a vision,” Tall Bull said, his old face serious. He’d aged considerably in the five years since Red Hawk’s death, his hair now completely white, his movements slow and careful.
“Yes. She says she sees fire in Gray Wolf’s old tipi. This afternoon, when the sun is low.”
Tall Bull looked down at Little Bird. “Is this true, little one?”
Little Bird nodded solemnly. “The fire comes when the sun is there,” she said again, pointing. “Big fire. The whole tipi burns.”
“Has she had visions before?” Tall Bull asked Morning Star.
“Small things. Dreams that came true. But nothing like this. Nothing so clear or immediate.”
Tall Bull was quiet for a long moment, then nodded decisively. “We watch the tipi. If she is right, we will be ready with water and can stop the fire before it spreads. If she is wrong...” He shrugged. “Then we have spent an afternoon watching an empty tipi. No harm done.”
He detailed two young warriors to keep watch, and the camp went about its business, though word spread quickly. By midafternoon, most of the village knew that Morning Star’s daughter had predicted a fire.
Firebird spent the time trying not to watch the sun too obviously. Little Bird seemed to have forgotten all about it, playing with the other children as if this were any normal day.
But Morning Star was tense, watchful. “If she’s right,” she said quietly to Firebird, “if she truly has the gift at five years old ... the visions will be strong. Stronger than mine, maybe. She’ll need teaching. Protection. The visions can be frightening when you’re young.”
“We’ll teach her,” Firebird said. “Together. The way we’ve done everything else.”
The sun crept across the sky. Late afternoon came. The warriors watching Gray Wolf’s tipi looked bored, leaning on their spears, probably thinking this was a waste of time.
Then one of them suddenly stood straight, pointing. “Smoke!”
Firebird’s head snapped toward the tipi. Sure enough, thin gray smoke was seeping through the tear in the hide, then through the smoke hole at the top.
“Fire!” someone shouted, and instantly the village mobilized.
Warriors ran with water skins. Women grabbed blankets to beat out flames. The fire was still small—someone’s carelessly discarded ember from a pipe, or perhaps a coal that had been smoldering since Gray Wolf’s time—but in the dry summer heat, it could have spread quickly, could have taken multiple tipis, could have killed people.
Instead, because they’d been ready, because they’d been watching, the fire was extinguished in minutes. Damage to the old tipi but nothing else. No one hurt. No disaster.
The village gathered around Little Bird, who was standing with Firebird and Morning Star, looking confused by all the attention.
“She has the sight,” Tall Bull announced. “Morning Star’s gift lives in her daughter. The spirits speak through her.”
The people murmured, some in awe, some in fear. A seer was a blessing, but also a burden. The weight of knowing the future, of seeing death and disaster before they came—that was not an easy gift to carry.
Fasting Woman, ancient and bent, made her way through the crowd. She stood before Little Bird, studying her with those sharp eyes that saw more than most.
“The gift is strong in you,” the old medicine woman said. “Stronger than in your aunt, maybe. But you are young. Too young. The visions will be hard for you.” She looked at Morning Star. “You will teach her?”
“Yes,” Morning Star said firmly. “I will teach her everything I know.”
“Good.” Fasting Woman touched Little Bird’s head, a gesture of blessing. “The spirits have marked you, child. Listen to them. Learn from them. And trust your aunt to guide you. She has walked this path. She knows its dangers.”
That night, after the excitement had died down and the children were supposed to be asleep, Firebird and Morning Star lay in their furs, talking quietly.
“She’s so young,” Morning Star whispered. “When my visions started, I was twelve. Nearly a woman. I had context, understanding. But she’s five. How do you explain visions to a five-year-old?”
“The way you explain anything to a child,” Firebird said. “Simple words. Patience. Love. And we don’t let her face it alone. Ever.”
“I’m scared for her.” Morning Star’s voice cracked. “The visions ... they’re not always good things. Sometimes they’re terrible things. Things you can’t stop, can’t change. Just have to watch happen. How do you teach a child to live with that?”
“The way Red Hawk’s mother taught you. The way Fasting Woman has guided you.” Firebird pulled Morning Star closer. “And she won’t be alone. She has you. She has me. She has Tall Elk—he’ll protect her, you watch. Those two are bonded. They’ll look after each other.”
From across the tipi, Little Bird’s small voice drifted through the darkness. “Mama? Other Mama? I’m scared.”
Morning Star was up instantly, going to the child’s furs. Firebird followed more slowly, her damaged muscles protesting the quick movement.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Morning Star asked, gathering Little Bird into her arms.
“I keep seeing things. They won’t stop. It’s like ... like dreams, but I’m awake. People I don’t know. Places I’ve never been. And...” She buried her face in Morning Star’s shoulder. “And bad things. Sad things.”
“I know,” Morning Star said softly, rocking her. “I know, little one. I see those things too. It’s the gift. It’s hard. But you’re not alone. I’m here. I understand. And I’ll teach you how to live with it.”
“Will it always be scary?”
“No. Sometimes the visions are good things. Beautiful things. Happy things. And even the scary ones—they’re not meant to frighten you. They’re meant to help you. To warn you. Today, you saved the village from a fire. Because of your vision, no one was hurt. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Little Bird considered this, then nodded slowly. “I helped?”
“You helped very much. You’re special, Little Bird. The spirits speak to you. That makes you important. Sacred. And I’m going to teach you how to listen to them, how to understand them, how to use the gift wisely.”
“Will you stay with me? When the visions come?”
“Always,” Morning Star promised. “I’ll always be here.”
Little Bird seemed satisfied with this and allowed herself to be settled back into her furs. But she reached out and grabbed Firebird’s hand. “You too, Mama. Promise you’ll stay too.”
“I promise,” Firebird said, squeezing her small hand. “Both of us. Always.”
The child fell asleep holding Firebird’s hand, and Morning Star and Firebird stayed there, keeping watch, keeping the promise they’d just made.
In the days and weeks that followed, Morning Star began teaching Little Bird about the gift in earnest.
She taught her how to recognize when a vision was coming—the strange distant feeling, the way the world seemed to blur at the edges. She taught her not to fight it, but to relax into it, to let the vision come and go naturally.
She taught her how to remember the visions clearly—to note specific details, to look for markers of time and place. A vision was useless if you couldn’t remember what you’d seen.
And she taught her the hardest lesson: that not all visions could be stopped. Sometimes you saw disaster coming and could do nothing but watch it unfold. That was the burden of the seer.
That night as the children slept, Morning Star and Firebird lay in their furs, both exhausted from the emotional weight of the day. Little Bird’s visions had been intense, frightening for a child so young, and teaching her to manage them had drained them both.
“She had three visions today,” Morning Star said quietly. “Three. And she’s only five. I didn’t have that many in a week when my gift was new.”
“You’re doing well with her,” Firebird replied, rolling onto her side to face her wife. “She trusts you. She’s learning.” She reached out, tracing Morning Star’s face with gentle fingers. “But you need to rest too. You can’t pour from an empty vessel.”
“I know. I just...” Morning Star turned to meet Firebird’s eyes, and in the dim firelight, exhaustion mixed with something else. Warmth. Need. “I’ve been so focused on Little Bird, on the children, on everything. I feel like we haven’t had time for just ... us.”
Firebird understood completely. The past weeks had been consumed by Little Bird’s emerging gift, by teaching and guiding and worrying. Their intimacy had been present but hurried, careful, almost perfunctory. Necessary comfort but not ... joyful.
“We have time now,” Firebird said softly, her fingertips moving from Morning Star’s face to trace along her jawline, down her throat. “The children are deeply asleep. The village is quiet. And I...” She smiled, feeling something she hadn’t felt in weeks. Playfulness. Desire without urgency or fear. “I want my wife.”
Morning Star’s eyes lit up, exhaustion falling away, replaced by something bright and alive. “Your wife wants you too.”
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