Down Under

 

Chapter 5: The Wizard

 

The clock on the wall of the cozy, almost quaint pub, the Crying Crocodile, struck eight just as Jean found an empty seat on the periphery of what appeared to be the audience for tonight’s reading.  Two dozen patrons formed a rough semicircle around a lone wooden stool, out of the way of the pub’s other business.  Of special note to Jean was the lack of a microphone.

 

Since the evening’s poet had yet to take the ‘stage,’ the young tourist took the opportunity to retrieve the postcard she’d bought from the Opera House Gift Shop from a plastic bag emblazoned with the iconic building.  The postcard itself showed a still from a recent production of Beauty and the Beast, bringing a smile to her face as she searched her purse for a pen.  Upon finding one – a process helped along by judicious, inconspicuous telekinesis – she addressed the back and wrote to Beast in the message area: To a book whose contents far outshine his cover, except when wearing his dust jacket.  Jean signed with a flourish and stowed the postcard in the souvenir bag.

 

The crowd around her chattered about this and that, apparently unconcerned that Mr. Allerdyce was late for his own reading.  She looked around to see if she could spot the putative poet, but no one gave off the right ‘vibe.’  Crossing her legs and smoothing her sundress, Jean relaxed for what seemed the first time today.

 

Sydney’s famed Opera House had proven as majestic as she had expected, covering several acres and consisting of multiple different types of performance venues, from the intimate Utzon Room to the cavernous Concert Hall.  Jean’s legs ached dully from the guided tour, and she was grateful for the guide.  Without him I might never have found my way out of there! she realized once she’d reached the gift shop.

 

The ache in her legs also stemmed from her trek across the Harbor Bridge.  She’d strolled the half-mile at a leisurely pace, the warm salt breeze necessitating her current ponytail.  Every so often she would stop to gaze at the eastern horizon, thoughts of friends at home clinging like the muggy air at rest.  Her disposable camera, also purchased from the Opera House Gift Shop, had captured several scenes, including the city at large, the Opera House, and the harbor.

 

Jean was pulled from her reverie by a well-groomed man of middling height climbing onto the stool.  Blond and clean-shaven, the poet wore a pale-orange polo and khakis, though he seemed to have forgotten his belt.  He carried an easy smile on his lips – if a tad mischievous – and a bulging folder in his hand.  The assembled pub-goers quieted.

 

‘Sorry I’m late, everyone,’ he began in a clear voice.  ‘I had to get directions a few blocks back.  The bloke must’ve been a fan of Tennyson, as he told me this place was “half a league onward.”’

 

There were a few subdued laughs from the audience, Jean among them.  She noted his accent was the least thick she’d heard since her arrival, audible only on a few select vowels.  I’d bet Mr. Allerdyce either had training in public speaking, she mused, or merely has a great deal of practice.

 

The poet’s gaze panned his audience, an expression of mild surprise on his face.  ‘I suppose that there’s why I’m not in stand-up,’ he remarked dryly, earning some more chuckles.  Jean couldn’t help but anticipate how much fun his reading would be – assuming, of course, that his poetry displayed the same wit his opening did.

 

Mr. Allerdyce opened his folder and selected a sheet.  ‘On that note, I’ll begin with this homage to both Tennyson and Sydney’s very own Harbor Bridge, “The Crawl of the Dawn Brigade.”’  His eyes twinkled mischievously as he began: ‘Half a mile, half a mile / Half a mile onward / All on the bridge to work / Drove some six hundred…’

 

 

Jean sat enraptured throughout the poetry reading, enjoying the poet’s wit, his eye for detail, his penchant for vivid imagery.  Delivered with minimum stage-patter, the poems ranged from lighthearted social satire to soaring paeans on Australian land- and seascapes, in styles and forms she’d never heard of in her two gen-ed literature classes.  She could see why he was billed as one of the city’s best, and wished desperately that Beast and the Professor could have attended.

 

The poet closed his folder, one final poem in hand.  ‘Tonight’s final selection will appear in next month’s inaugural issue of HEAT Magazine, a new journal out of the University of Western Sydney,’ he explained and Jean could hear in his voice a strong sense of pride for his work.  ‘So, for your hearing pleasure, I present “The Legend of the Phoenix.”

 

‘Cerulean tongue

Persimmon tongue

Heated kiss



Flakes of passion

Dancing on ether

Dancing on starlight

Need no fuel but themselves



Raptor’s spread wings

Enfold the beating heart



Raptor’s talons clasp

Two-in-one radiance



Luminous consumption

Once enveloped, now envelops

Raptor alight



Feathers, talons, beak

Burn to ash, burn to ash



Soot-buried egg

Wobbles, wiggles, cracks,

Struggles for daylight,

Finds only ruin



Chick stretches wings —

Too small to bear the weight?

Too weak to fly

Where the raptor soared?

 

Chick knows the flames await

Chick knows the raptor burns



Freedom beckons

Starlight beckons

Passion beckons



Chick becomes the raptor

And soars.’

 

The final lines hung heavy in the air.  Mr. Allerdyce rose from his stool, and spirited applause erupted from the crowd.  The poet half-bowed several times, motioning for them to tone themselves down, lest the pub-owners kick them out for disturbing the other patrons.  They quickly settled into an informal meet-and-greet, with the poet even managing a few sales of his last book from out of a small black briefcase he’d set by the stool before Jean had noticed his presence.

 

The young woman remained in her seat at first, paralyzed by cold shock, as if she’d been splashed with ice-water.  It’s just a coincidence, she assured herself.  It must be coincidence.  The final lines still hung heavy over her, and she couldn’t shake, no matter how she tried, the poem’s feeling of pertinence.  There’s no way he could know… but it fits all too well.

 

Gathering her things, Jean resolved to meet this man who had unwittingly spoken to her heart.

 

Because she had waited – or rather, been frozen in place – she stood last in the queue of patrons to speak with the poet.  A glance at her watch showed the time to be well after 9:30 – in fact, nearly 10 – which surprised her with the speed of time’s passage once he’d begun.  Once the person ahead of her had cleared, she stepped forward and extended a hand.

 

“Hello, Mr. Allerdyce.  My name’s Jean, and I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your reading.”  Keeping her tone coolly neutral, she gave him a polite, genuine smile.  She suppressed the amorphous tickle at the back of her mind.

 

The poet’s chocolate-brown eyes flicked over her, sending a slight shiver up her spine.  He smiled warmly at the sight before him: a gorgeous green-eyed redhead in a pale-yellow sundress, with an hourglass figure the likes of which he’d never seen.  Bringing her hand to his lips for a gallant kiss, he insisted, ‘Call me St. John.’

 

“’Sinjun’?” she repeated uncertainly.  “As in, rhymes with ‘engine’?”

 

St. John nodded, eyes twinkling.  ‘That’s right.  It’s my first name.’

 

“So that’s how it’s pronounced,” Jean responded with a flush.  She could barely smell his cologne – only a splash, just enough to catch her attention without overwhelming her nose.  She would swear she’d smelled it before – maybe something Scott wore on a date?

 

‘I’m glad you decided to drop by, especially since you’re on holiday.’  He laughed lightly, adding, ‘Not many tourists go in for poetry readings, though I wish more would.’

 

Her eyes widened a bit.  “Wait, how’d you…?”  She caught herself mid-sentence.  “Oh, right,” she giggled, “I’ve got this Opera House Gift Shop bag in my hand.”

 

‘Not to mention a Yank accent,’ he added.  ‘New York?’

 

“Okay, how’d you know that?”

 

He shrugged.  ‘I’ve been a few times.’

 

“You’ve got a good ear,” she commented, adding the compliment, “That must be why your poems are so good.”

 

St. John grinned, pleased to hear such praise from such luscious lips.  ‘Flattery’ll get you everywhere,’ he flirted, causing her to blush slightly once again.  More seriously, he asked, ‘Which one did you most enjoy?’

 

“If I had to choose,” she answered with a wavering voice, “I would choose the last one.  They were all great poems, but that one just… spoke to me.”  No longer could Jean quash the distinct impression that she had seen this man before somewhere – perhaps heard his name, too – but she simply could not recall when or where.  Her brow wrinkled subtly as she racked her brain.

 

‘I’ll admit I rather like that one.  Somehow that near-disaster a few months back – the sun darkening, the earth trembling, the seas raging – reminded me of the phoenix, about death and rebirth, especially once the crisis was averted.  The whole sequence was… primal, y’know?’

 

Face paling, Jean simply nodded, hoping he’d chalk it up to her remembering the event as seen on earth.  Her perspective, of course, had been much, much different…

 

 

< She clutches the M’Kraan crystal in her talons.  It throbs with power, as if it holds all life, all existence, within its purview.  It has that power: the power to create, and the power to destroy.

 

She is mightier still.  She holds it in check.

 

Mad Emperor D’Ken pushes against her from within.  She holds him in check as well.

 

She is mightier than both of them, but not for much longer.  She must act NOW.

 

She bends the crystal’s lattice to her will.  The breach D’Ken had opened, that threatened to swallow all life, all the universe, begins to mend.  The Crack of Doom narrows to a sliver.

 

D’Ken howls in defeat.  He fights regardless.  He fights closure.

 

She knits the final shard-threads together.  She seals away D’Ken.  She seals the Crack of Doom.

 

I must prevent anyone from attempting to breach the crystal again.  I must take it beyond the reach of mortals.

 

The sun, restored to its burning brilliance, no longer eclipsed by darkness incarnate, beckons to her.

 

Clutching the crystal, she dives into the sun, down to its thrumming heart, its incandescent core.

 

Farewell, my friends.  The light… if only you could see it.  Oh, Scott… >

 

 

‘You all right?’

 

Jean inhaled sharply, her mind returning to the present.  She blinked rapidly and wiped her eyes, clearing away the tears that had begun to stain her cheeks.  St. John handed her a napkin from one of the pub tables, which she accepted gratefully.

 

‘Did you… lose someone… during all that?’ he asked, his voice soft, soothing, somber.

 

Briefly, meaningfully, Jean hesitated before answering: “You could say that.”  I lost myself.

 

Shaking his head, the poet frowned.  ‘Right sorry to hear it.  Anything I can do?’  Jean just shook her head, prompting him to offer, ‘Not even an elegy?  I’d be happy to write in memoriam, if you can tell me enough about—‘

 

“Thank you, St. John, but no,” Jean interjected, smiling still-tearfully.

 

For several long moments silence reigned.  Jean blotted the remainder of her tears.  St. John scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

 

‘I guess you came to Australia to put yourself together, Humpty-Dumpty?’

 

“More or less.  It looks like all the king’s horses and men won’t be able to get the job done, though.”

 

He sighed sadly, hating to hear anyone sound so forlorn.  ‘I think you don’t give yourself enough credit for making it this far.  Things’ll get better.  Just keep your head up.’

 

Now he understood why she liked his last poem.

 

On impulse, he pulled his typed copy of “The Legend of the Phoenix” from his folder, along with a pen.  Bearing down on the stool, he autographed the poem and wrote his phone number on it.  ‘In case you want someone to talk to,’ he explained as he handed her the sheet of paper.

 

“I can’t accept this,” Jean replied, holding it back toward him.

 

‘No worries,’ St. John countered, refusing to take it back.  ‘I’ve a handwritten copy back at the flat.’

 

Touched, Jean folded the sheet and stowed it in her bag, favoring the poet with a warm smile.  “Thank you, St. John, you’re very generous.”  She looked at her watch again, the fatigue of a hard day’s sightseeing – and the emotional toll of reliving that memory – crashing down on her all at once.  “I’d better get back to my hotel.”

 

‘I could walk you.  Or snag you a cab.’

 

She smiled – an almost flirtatious smile, if she hadn’t been so drained – and declined.  Once out of the pub and on her way, she wondered, “Why did I tell a complete stranger all that?  Why did I trust him with such an intense personal moment?”

 

Because he’s the first man to say two words to you without trying to get into your pants?replied another, more idealistic part of her mind.  Because he seems so empathetic?

 

“Maybe it’s just because he seems so familiar somehow,” she mused aloud.  “Like a cross between Scott and Remy.”

 

That sounds like a recipe for trouble,commented a more cynical mind-fragment.  You should get some sleep and forget about charming, handsome Aussie poets.

 

Reaching into her souvenir bag for the folded sheet, Jean considered tossing it in the trash.  She just couldn’t make herself do it, though.  Licking her suddenly-smiling lips, she returned the memento to its place.

 

“Fat chance of that!”

 

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A/N: Sorry for the wait on this chapter, all - a combination of necessary research and end-of-semester hijinx caused quite a hold-up.  Please excuse me for inflicting the probably-bad poem in the middle of the chapter; I wanted St. John's poetry skills to be shown, not told, and I hope my attempt has made that happen.

 

Fun fact: HEAT is an actual poetry journal in Australia, started in 1996, during the run of X-Men: The Animated Series and (with some admitted wiggle room on the dates) plausibly after the airing of the Phoenix and Dark Phoenix episodes.