There once lived a white dove in the valleys of Sapa. The white dove was a proud one, often soaring high above the endless cascading rows of rice terraces and slow, meandering rivers. He enjoyed looking down with genuine interest at the humans who seemed to spend a whole lot of their time bending over and burying objects in the water that pooled along these terraces. Sometimes, they plucked instead of buried and he always wondered why.
The white dove had many reasons to be proud, but the one that he prized the most above all others was his feathers. White, silky and sketched in peculiar streaks, it gave him a wild look - not in an unkempt, savage kind of way, but in a refined manner which allowed him to radiate a charming, hypnotizing but slightly oppressive presence that could only be described as being recklessly stunning. He knew deep in his heart that his feathers were the universe’s greatest gift to him.
His peculiar streaks gave him another unique ability, and this was especially apparent as he flew on his daily human-watching endeavours over the valley. With the sun glaring on his feathers and the rays of light bouncing off the eccentric, irregular streaks, a reflection of his form transpired behind him, mimicking him and shadowing his every move. This reflection, although blinding, portrayed a divine, saint-like presence.
Often, this reflection would gleam ever so splendidly that the humans below him would look up and make seemingly excited noises that were audible but incoherent to him. Fortunately, if there ever was a universal language that could transcend all forms, beings and tongues on earth, it was the expression of beauty. He understood exactly what the humans meant by their exhilarated, high-pitched articulations.
He was the White Dove, and he knew it.
---
High within the forests of Sapa Valley, at the mouth where all the meandering rivers began, there was a small humble hut that sat atop a raggedy collection of rocks. In this hut, there lived an old man that above all things, loved collecting berries. Throughout his life, he had tasted an overabundance of berries, berries of all colours, sizes, shapes and tastes. These berries grew well in the cold, frigid temperatures of the heights where the old man lived. It was in fact, the only reason why he allowed himself to live alone in the heights of Sapa.
It was no doubt a lonely existence, but to him, it was a small price to pay for a life in which he could fulfil his passion for berries.
Moreover, as a manner of brief respite, and as if it was the universe’s way of apologizing for placing the berries in such an unforgiving location, the old man would be - daily at noon - visited by the White Dove.
Of all the berries that could carve a genuine smile on his face, none of them could compare to a visit by the White Dove. It all began with a faint soothing coo, followed by a sudden glow of light which poured in through the window by his desk. And then, as if like clockwork, the White Dove would land on his windowsill seconds later, perched happily with beady eyes looking up at him.
How the old man marvelled at his soft, white feathers. The White Dove was the single most beautiful being he had ever set his eyes upon, and he would never pass up the chance to lovingly run his fingers through the White Dove’s distinctive patterns. The White Dove, delighted to be the centre of the old man’s attention, chirped back affectionately.
The old man often talked about his day - mostly about berries - to the White Dove. “Did you know that there’s a berry that takes the form of 4 colours? I held it in my own hands, it was green, red, a deep blue and a light orange with a tinge of yellow. It was amazing, truly, as all the berries I’ve ever seen are either a plain blue or a boring dull red. Just a shame that there were two sides to the berry! Alas, it was only a beauty to look at. It tasted revolting,” quipped the old man, shaking his head as he placed more berries into the bowl from which the White Dove was happily eating from.
On most days, after the old man had finished talking about his berries to the White Dove, he would head over to his desk and pour himself into the diary in which he had scribbled down every single berry he had ever seen, smelled or tasted. The White Dove would perch on his shoulder, looking over with great interest and sometimes sharing the same enthusiasm that the old man had if he came across a particularly memorable berry.
It was these moments - the quiet, shared experiences which were in itself an uncommon and lost art of communication, which the old man and the White Dove enjoyed the most.
Over the years, the old man and the White Dove had undoubtedly developed a bond that brought both of them much joy, solace and companionship, a friendship that one could only appreciate deeply but look at with a tinge of jealousy - for it was a friendship that one could only desire but could never hope to experience in their life.
---
It seemed to be a good day. The wind was blowing strong behind his back and the White Dove was gliding effortlessly towards the heights of Sapa. Humming happily to himself, he was flipping through the memories of all the tastiest berries he had eaten. Only yesterday, the old man had excitedly told the White Dove that he was close to finding a berry that he knew was going to be “sweeter than the thickest glob of honey.” This very thought was giving him that extra flutter in his wings.
Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of dread crept upon him. It was uncanny - this was a sense of uneasiness that he’d never felt before in his life, and it had crashed with an undeniably alarming abruptness.
As he looked down, he now noticed how the rice terraces were eerily empty. The watery plains that normally sprawled with activity were void of any souls. All he could hear was an ominous silence that accompanied the lack of life.
What was the universe trying to tell him?
He had always been a superstitious one, and his father had tirelessly tried to reason with the White Dove through his version of logic. He remembered his father telling him that a “single gust of wind never meant a storm was coming.” Things happen randomly, he always added, and after all, life was nothing but a series of random events strung together like a necklace. All one could do was wear it proudly on their chest.
The White Dove decided to look up instead, hoping that maybe the heavens could offer him some form of comfort. He observed keenly as the clouds lined up close to each other, taking the form of huge, soft cotton balls that softened the penetrating rays from the sun. “Nothing peculiar,” he thought to himself as he drew some semblance of comfort from the normalcy of the situation.
Then all at once, it happened. As the skies inched open and a slither of light crept through a crevice between the clouds, six crows burst into view, diving sharply before sweeping up and flying directly at him with incredible speed. Panicking at the sudden turn of events, he tensed his wings and mustered all the strength that his reflexes could offer him and banked right, narrowly missing the rapidly advancing crows. The White Dove instantly looked back, fearing that the crows might turn and pursue him.
They didn’t. The crevice between the clouds had now opened up completely, and the rays of light that shone through meant his saint-like reflection was at its brightest. His reflection was shielding him from the crows, blinding them and allowing him to rocket away from their view.
Recalibrating himself, the White Dove wasted no time and flapped maniacally as he sped towards the old man, for the omens that 6 crows brought meant only one thing.
Death.
---
The White Dove landed hastily on the windowsill by the old man’s desk and immediately started looking for him. He frantically scanned every corner of the room but he could not see the old man. Anticipation had long ago evaporated into anxiety as the White Dove tried incessantly to make sense of the situation.
Seeing that the old man was gone, the White Dove instantly took to the skies. He could now feel his heart beating through his ears and he was trying his best to not let fear paralyze him. The White Dove flew up till he had a good view of the old man’s hut and the surrounding forests and started circling.
Where could he possibly be?
He spotted a small clearing that nestled itself between two tall oak trees and made a beeline for it. Drawing closer, he saw footprints in the dirt path below and sped through the clearing into the jungle.
Down in the valley, the jungles of Sapa were dense, humid and teeming with life. This meant it was a cacophony of animal calls, noises and sounds which on any other day, the White Dove would have loved to immerse himself in. He could spend hours flitting between trees and perching on the highest branches, listening to the guttural calls of the hornbills and looking out into the horizon, wondering where the edges of the forest ended.
But in the heights, the jungles were deathly quiet, and the White Dove had rarely ventured into them as he found them foreboding. Yet, a quiet jungle was exactly what he needed now. As he strained his ears listening for a clue, he heard it. The soft, pacifying sound of a waterfall to the north.
By now, the White Dove had been flying at a hysterical pace for more than an hour, and he knew he was almost past his breaking point. He could no longer feel his wings - they were limp and it felt as though someone had sliced his skin open and filled them with burning lead. His throat was parched and the pain in his eyes was now intolerable, burning and dry from the cold air blowing relentlessly into him.
Alas, it was worth it.
As the waterfall slowly came into view, the White Dove saw his dearest friend in the distance.
---
The White Dove was exhausted but he could hardly care less. None of the physical pains he experienced mattered to him anymore. The only thing that he yearned to do was to reach the old man and know that the omens meant nothing. He wanted to know, once and for all, that everything was just as it had always been - that everything was fine.
The old man seemed to be bending over. The White Dove could only see his back turned against him, but he could see that the old man was doing something. His demeanour seemed energetic, excited - in a way that he had rarely seen.
He wasn’t sure what made him do it - maybe it was the contrast between how he was feeling and the jovial demeanour of his friend, or maybe it was the fact that the old man actually seemed alright but had not been there when he landed on the windowsill, but the White Dove had a quick change of heart. He decided to veer right and head for a branch that overlooked the waterfall and the old man.
What could be making the old man so excited?
The White Dove landed silently, catching his breath and slowly inching his way along the branch to get a better view of what the old man was doing. He was trying his best not to make a sound.
When he saw what was in front of the old man, the White Dove felt perplexed but curious. For the second time that day, he struggled to grasp the nature of the situation.
The bird was perched smugly on a rock, his wings folded perfectly along the length of its body. He had his head cocked sideways, looking with great curiosity at the old man in front of him. The bird stood at about a metre tall - large, for a bird and measuring almost half of the old man’s torso.
But there was a reason why the bird was large. His size had to accommodate the one thing about the bird that stood out - the colour of his feathers. They were a symphony of every possible colour - yes, every possible colour that could have ever existed and could possibly exist, blended in a manner that gave an elegant, artistic and marbly texture to the bird. The edges of every colour absorbed effortlessly into the next, and at parts, the colour itself seemed to change with every slight shift in angle. In fact, the longer the White Dove observed, the more colours rattled off in his head. Blue, crimson, magenta, cyan, scarlet - was there any colour he had not seen that wasn’t on the bird? It was as if all of the universe’s colours had decided to implant itself in some way on just a single, solitary creature.
The White Dove was snapped out of his reverie as he heard the old man mutter his first words since he had perched on the branch.
“I don’t believe I may have come across something so majestic and overwhelmingly gorgeous as you in my tired, old life.”
Those words stung the White Dove a little.
“I never believed the universe to be defined by colour, I‘ve never much-appreciated colour myself you know. I’m not sure why, but maybe it’s because I’ve only seen and experienced plainness in my life. All I’ve ever seen is green, brown, grey and,” the old man paused for a while, seemingly pensive before muttering:
“White.”
Shock filled every fibre in the White Dove’s body. He had to look again to be sure that it was the old man. It was unbelievable, what he was hearing. Was this really how he had felt all this while? Memories of the White Dove’s most cherished moments with the old man started running in his head, and he was starting to question the very meaning of these moments.
“But you - you’ve brought a whole new dimension to my universe. I understand what beauty truly is now, and for that, I’ll cherish you, and I thank you,” muttered the old man softly, as he reached into his satchel and took out a berry, feeding it to the bird.
“This one’s sweeter than the thickest glob of honey. I hope you like it,” he beamed as the bird chomped down gratefully on the berry.
The White Dove felt a tear trickle down his beak. The shock that he felt initially was now an unbearable, agonizingly cold emotion that had seemed to settle in his chest. He couldn't identify with this emotion, but he knew that it now filled every crevice in his heart and all it meant was pain.
“I shall name you the Marbled Phoenix.”
With the old man bestowing his newfound fascination with a name, the White Dove took off from the branch and flew up into the clouds gathering once more in the sky.
---
The death that the omens symbolized came in the form that was unexpected for the White Dove. It wasn’t the death of the old man, but it was the death of a bond that they had spent years cultivating.
It didn’t matter either way and as sad as it was for him, the old man was dead to him. There were some words that you couldn’t just un-hear.
The White Dove felt empty and aimless as he flew from village to village, hoping to seek any kind of solace from the humans that had always marvelled at him and his saint-like reflection. He yearned for some morsel of validation, hoping that it could help him take his mind off the old man and his crushing betrayal.
Woefully, it seemed that the people in the villages of Sapa could not offer him any. They were indeed, people who enjoyed their colours, seeing it as an important part of their artistic expression. Worse so, there was a reason why none of them was at the rice terraces - it seemed to be the time of the year when there was nothing to bury or pluck in the waters of the terraces, and they now spent their time at home weaving out scarves and woollen jackets that burst with intricate, multicoloured patterns.
They seemed honestly happy to be surrounded by colour, wearing their jackets and scarves as they went about their normal lives, laughing and greeting each other in the streets.
Moreover, the White Dove was a shadow of his former proud self. He was now meek, downcast and sluggish. The villagers could sense his deep sorrow, and they seemed less inclined to be associated with him, let alone approach him or wonder at him. His sadness also translated into a downtrodden, slumped posture which meant his feathers didn’t quite have the same eccentric streaks that it had before, and it meant that his reflection was now just a dim, blurry annoyance - much like a flickering lightbulb.
“Don’t go near that bird - there’s something not right about him. He might be cursed - nothing but a bad omen,” warned a mother to her child as they walked cautiously past him.
“Shoo! Go away, get away from my shop! And turn that light off, it’s scaring my customers away!” yelled another villager, as he hastily chased the White Dove away as he was resting on a fence.
All these experiences at the villages crushed the White Dove’s spirit even further. If even the humans despised him and turned their backs against him, it must mean that he was the problem. It meant that the gifts that he had were not gifts at all. After all, if no one appreciated them, what value did it hold?
The White Dove knew what he had to do. There was no choice - it was the only way for him to feel whole again.
And maybe, it was the only way for him to gain the approval of his dearest friend once more.
---
The White Dove was ruthless in his pursuit for renewal. He was flying further than any dove had even dared to dream. He flew to every mountain in Sapa, and then Vietnam, and soon he had flown to nearly every mountain in South-East Asia, for at the summit of every mountain, there lived the mystical Birds of Paradise.
When he was young, his father had told him stories of how each one of the Birds of Paradise held secrets to immortal, perpetual beauty, and how they were wise enough to understand that beauty was indeed in the eyes of the beholder, how there was no one true definition to what beauty was. This meant that one could define their beauty, and then be shown the path to achieving it.
The only risk of this path was that once the beauty was realised, it could never be unturned. But then again, which fool would want beauty unturned?
The White Dove had infinite amounts of energy and determination, fueled by the desire to be accepted, to stop feeling that cold, unbearable emotion that never left his chest since the day he perched on the branch, listening to the old man mutter those words. Above all, he wanted to be worthy of rekindling the friendship he had with his dearest companion.
Through sheer grit, he met every single Bird of Paradise - 20 in total - in 20 days. Each of them understood what he meant by beauty, and offered him paths that revealed where he could find the richest, most unique colours in the universe. They revealed to him where he could find the deepest reds and the most calming hues of blue, where he could find the most trusting of greens and the most blinding of yellows. They unveiled the secret to extracting these colours and painting every single one of them on his feathers.
Like a bird possessed, he flew from the plains of Mongolia to the peaks of Everest, from the highlands of Kashmir to the insurmountable sand mounds of Arabia & Africa. He journeyed over the Atlantic and battled his way past eagles thrice his size, toiled through the dense thick forests of Amazon and visited every single island in the Caribbean.
The White Dove spent a year procuring these colours, and by the end of it all, there wasn’t a single feather on him that was white. The eccentric streaks that he was once proud of were now gone, masked by the myriad of colours covering him. His unique ability to transpire a reflection of himself - one that was deemed annoying by the villagers - had vanished as well.
His transformation was complete, and by his own definition of beauty, no creature in the universe could hope to match him.
---
The White Dove’s heart was beating at a frenzied pace as he approached the heights of Sapa. His wings fared no better, as they were quivering anxiously but had somehow worked well enough to carry him over the forests and rivers that he hadn’t seen in more than a year.
The endless, cascading rice terraces below the White Dove were once again filled with humans, but none of them looked up. After all, there wasn’t anything to let them know that the White Dove was soaring above.
Today, the humans were lined up in neat rows along the terraces, plucking what seemed like a sort of plant from the ankle-deep waters and paying no attention to him.
All this didn’t matter to the White Dove. He could show them what he looked like later. For now, there was somewhere more important for him to be.
Beneath his agitated exterior, the White Dove was feeling immensely hopeful. After a year, he was finally going to see the old man again, but this time, his dear friend was going to admire him and the plethora of colours painted on his feathers. There was not a single plain white feather on him, and surely there could not be any other bird with hues and colours as unique, complex and rich as his. He had wagered his own life and sacrificed an awfully long amount of time to meet every single Bird of Paradise, and he had travelled to the furthest ends of the earth to make certain that his beauty was unmatched. Surely he was worth now.
He wondered how the old man would react. Would he sense that the White Dove was coming and rush out of the hut to greet him? Or maybe he would have saved up a year’s worth of the sweetest, most unique berries in the heights, ready in a bowl for when the White Dove returned.
Maybe finally, he would be able to perch on the old man’s shoulder once more, quietly listening as the old man flipped through his diary, reliving the berries that had captured his imagination. The White Dove smiled to himself as he thought of this precious memory. How he had longed to be able to do that once more.
Yet as he filled his head and heart with these wishful thoughts, he was interrupted by the sight of a bird that perched himself on a branch connecting two tall oak trees. He couldn’t quite make out the bird, but he was sure that it was abnormally large - that was the only reason why he could see it from this distance.
It didn’t take long for the White Dove to finally see who it was.
The Marbled Phoenix, seeing that the White Dove had recognized him, beckoned with his head for the White Dove to follow him. He seemed confident enough that the White Dove would do so as he unfurled the full length of his colossal wings and took off, flying emphatically in the direction of the waterfall.
The Marbled Phoenix was right. The White Dove, so intrigued by the sudden appearance of the creature that had been the very reason for all the agony he'd been through, could not resist himself. He wanted to know why the Marbled Phoenix wanted him to follow him, and above all, he wanted to show the dastardly bird that he no longer was his plain old self. He flapped his wings with a renewed purpose and sped towards the Marbled Phoenix, kindled by a mixture of rage and a need to prove himself.
Before long, the White Dove found himself, once again, in the quiet forests of the heights of Sapa, tailing the Marbled Phoenix as he led him to the waterfalls.
---
The Marbled Phoenix landed neatly on the same rock where the White Dove had first seen him with the old man. He coyly looked up at the White Dove who was now swooping down with great speed to join him. The Marbled Phoenix couldn’t help feel that the White Dove was foolish to so willingly dive headfirst into the waterfalls. What did he know of the Marbled Phoenix’s intentions?
It did show one thing - that the White Dove was driven by nothing but emotion, throwing logic carelessly out of the window.
The White Dove landed aggressively on a rock opposite the Marbled Phoenix, staring directly at him with his jet black eyes.
A silence fell upon the waterfall as the two birds jostled with the dynamics of power wordlessly.
The Marbled Phoenix observed the new coat of feathers on the White Dove. They were enchanting - his beauty now far exceeded the Marbled Phoenix’s own.
“You seek to reconcile with your dearest friend,” spoke the Marbled Phoenix in a tranquillizing voice, finally breaking the silence.
“I seek to put you back in your rightful place, and I seek to reclaim what you took from me.” The was no mistaking the emotion in the White Dove’s voice. It was shaking with anger.
“Took? I took nothing from you. We found each other and he wanted my companionship. He was the one that yearned for the colours of the universe. I decided nothing. If there was anyone that you should blame, it should be that human that you love so much.”
“But there is a reason why I humbly come to you,” continued the Marbled Phoenix before the White Dove could retort. “You see, as much as I sense your anger, I must admit to you that we are equals.”
The Marbled Phoenix allowed the White Dove time to digest his statement. He was satisfied by the confused look on the White Dove’s face.
“No, it’s not because of the colour of our feathers, but rather, it's the reality that we've both been through. The pain, the betrayal. I know it all,” drawled the Marbled Phoenix.
“How dare you compare yourself with me. You couldn’t possibly understand, you’ve had the privilege to not endure what I’ve gone through,” answered the White Dove angrily.
“That’s where you’re wrong my friend. I am your equal for precisely the very same reason why you’re standing in front of me now with that rage in your eyes.”
“I too was abandoned by the old man. A few months after you left us, the old man started to grow distant from me. He frequently complained that my bright colours hurt his tired old eyes. But deep inside, I knew it was something else. It seemed that there was a void growing inside him, one that he was becoming increasingly desperate to fill. Eventually, this void became too great for either one of us to bear, and he told me he no longer wanted to see me.”
“Void? What void?” the White Dove spoke quickly.
Ignoring his comment completely, the Marbled Phoenix pushed on. “I come to you because I want to save you from a certain end that will undoubtedly destroy you. Whatever it is that you seek from your meeting with the old man, you will not find it.”
“You’re lying. You understand nothing of what I seek and what I have done for our friendship. With the colours I have attained, he will accept me once again.” The White Dove tried his best to sound confident, but the Marbled Phoenix’s words had allowed a slither of doubt crept into his conviction.
“See it for yourself then.” The Marbled Phoenix spread out his right-wing and waved it over the still waters.
The still water slowly began to tremble as pockets of ripples formed on the surface. These pockets started to move in strange fluid patterns, skipping across the surface of the water and fusing. Before long, the ripples coalesced into a sort of picture, and the White Dove saw in front of him the old man and the Marbled Phoenix.
The Marbled Phoenix now dipped the tip of his wing into the water. Immediately, the picture burst into colour and life, and the White Dove could see with incredible vividness the memory that was playing in front of him.
He saw the Marbled Phoenix perched on the windowsill and the old man running his hands through his feathers. The old man was placing berries in a bowl for the Marbled Phoenix to eat from. They seemed happy and contented with each other’s companionship. The memory promptly changed, the ripples rapidly shifting to show the Marbled Phoenix and the old man in the forest. The White Dove heard the old man muttering that he loathed having to be in the forest and that he was only there because it was dark and it shielded the Marbled Phoenix’s colours from his eyes.
The memory changed once more, showing the old man sitting quietly, with blank, soulless eyes while the Marbled Phoenix looked on helplessly.
“At this point, I must warn you. What you see ahead might reveal the truth, but it might also prove to be a truth that might be difficult for you to accept. Do you want to go on?” warned the Marbled Phoenix.
The White Dove nodded his head. There was no turning back when the truth lay so close to him.
“Very well then,” muttered the Marbled Phoenix.
The memory changed to show the Marbled Phoenix perched on top of a branch connecting two tall oak trees. Somehow, the White Dove could sense the sadness emanating from the Marbled Phoenix, who was now gazing at the old man sitting on the windowsill. The old man was cupping his hand over something, and he was slowly bringing his hand up to his face.
As the old man slowly unfurled his cupped hands, the White Dove finally saw the creature within. It was a small hummingbird, jumping excitedly in his hands as the old man smiled at it. The old man held his hands up high in the sky as he lined the hummingbird up against the sun as if hoping for something to happen, and as he did so, the White Dove saw with clarity what the Marbled Phoenix meant by the void.
The hummingbird had feathers of white. Colourless and immaculately white.
“The void was me all along?” muttered the White Dove quietly as he looked up from the water.
The Marbled Phoenix nodded his head slowly.
“But what am I to do? I have visited them all - the Birds of Paradise, I have procured all the richest colours of the universe, I...I can’t change back. You know I can’t be what I used to be right? What am I to do?”
“There is nothing you can do except fly away from here. Face it, you are not the White Dove that you so proudly used to be. End this pain once and for all. Learn from it. Fly away and never come back. Forget the old man. It’s for your own good.”
“But there must be something I can do, there must be! I am the White Dove and I will always be the White Dove - surely I can just be...myself!”
After a short pause, and expressing a pained, pitiful look, the Marbled Phoenix uttered a reply. “I have heard of a place. A place where there’s nothing but white painting the landscape. I have heard...maybe there might be an answer there. I’m not sure but I have heard fables - fables which might point you to your old identity. But it’s far up in the north, and no creature here can ever hope to survive up there. Our feathers are not thick enough. I would greatly advise you against it.”
"You must understand this: There is no permanence in this universe. Everything is planted, grown and eventually plucked away by the forces of nature and time. Once you have run your course and purpose there is no turning back."
“This is a chance I would have to take,” exclaimed the White Dove, already flapping his wings, ready to take off. The White Dove seemed hysterical. "I will be who I was once more. I have been the White Dove my whole life, and the dearest friend any bird could ever be, it is only fair that I am afforded this chance. If the universe will not make sure of it, I will do so or perish trying."
"If you say so, the decision is ultimately yours," the Marbled Phoenix replied slowly, his head now bowed.
“Thank you, my brother, for showing me the truth. Thank you for showing me that I am not lost. Now I must discover a way back to being the self that I relinquished so foolishly.”
“Oh, you are most welcome,” quipped the Marbled Phoenix as he cooly heard the White Dove express his final goodbyes and take off into the sky, his head still bowed.
Silence once again fell upon the waterfalls, with just the Marbled Phoenix perched on top of a rock. As he finally raised he head from his bowed posture, a smile that had so cunningly crept upon his face came into view. With a twinkle in his eyes, the Marbled Phoenix spread his majestic wings and rose high into the sky, heading straight for the hut that sat atop a raggedy collection of rocks in the heights of Sapa.
THE END
