“Watch it!” she cried, clinging to the blanket for dear life.
“Sorry.” He scooped her back up and set her carefully on the cot. “Morning,” he said to Aunt Phil.
“Morning, Nate. I repacked your things while you were sleeping. Added a few supplies I thought you’d need.”
“Thanks.” He jumped off the cot and stuffed his feet into his shoes. During the night, he had come up with a plan. Since this basilisk was such a dangerous beast, Nate knew he would only get in Aunt Phil’s way. Clearly it would be best if he caught a mail plane back to England and waited for her there. Nate couldn’t wait to suggest his plan, but before he could say anything, there was a tapping at the tent door.
It was Mr. Pickle, inviting them to the mess tent for one last hot breakfast.
“I’m afraid I’ve too much to do,” Aunt Phil told him. “But if you would take Nate, I’m sure he would appreciate a hot meal.”
Nate could tell that Mr. Pickle wanted to argue, but his desire to please won out in the end. “Very well, Dr. Fludd. Nathaniel? This way, if you please.”
Nate grabbed his rucksack and followed Mr. Pickle to a wide canvas tent. Like everything else, it was covered with a thick layer of reddish sand. Inside, a large burly man was slinging runny-looking eggs onto tin plates. Nate took one and followed Mr. Pickle to an empty table.
Nate’s stomach was so full of excitement for his new plan that there wasn’t any room for breakfast. He picked at his eggs and tried to work up his courage. When Mr. Pickle was almost finished with his breakfast, Nate finally asked, “Do you know where I can make arrangements for a flight back to England?”
Mr. Pickle looked a bit confused. “Aren’t you going with Dr. Fludd?”
“I . . . we . . . thought it best if I returned to England for now. That way she can focus all her attention on her mission.”
Mr. Pickle thought for a moment, and Nate held his breath. “I suppose that makes sense. There’s no ticket office or anything like that. Your best bet would be to check with the pilots awaiting their takeoffs. One of them might have some extra room.”
Nate let out a whoosh of relief. “Thank you, sir.” Nate pushed his plate away and stood up to leave.
Once outside, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. Greasle poked her head out of his rucksack. “Won’t that aunt of yours be peeved?” she asked.
“She shouldn’t be,” Nate said. “I’m making all the arrangements myself and saving her any trouble.” Besides, he was sure she’d agree once he had had a chance to explain it to her. And if he could present it as something already arranged, so much the better.
Chapter Four
THERE WERE TWO OTHER PLANES besides Aunt Phil’s waiting near the hangar. One of them had just landed and a pilot was disembarking. Squaring his shoulders, Nate approached him. “Excuse me?”
The pilot looked down at Nate. “Hullo there. I must say, you’re the youngest pilot I’ve seen here.”
“Oh, I’m not a pilot, actually.” Too late, Nate saw the twinkle in the man’s eye and realized he’d been teasing. Embarrassed and afraid he’d lose his nerve, Nate blurted out, “I was wondering if you have room for a passenger when you return to England?”
The pilot thought a moment. “I suppose I will. Don’t think there’ll be that much mail.”
There was a rustle of movement at Nate’s back, then a sniffing sound. The pilot’s gaze zeroed in on Nate’s shoulder, and he frowned. “I’d be happy to take you, mate, but not that. No gremlins on my plane.”
Nate’s hopes, which had begun to soar, dropped like a stone.
“But if you leave it behind, you’re welcome to come along. I’ll take off again at noon. Meet me back here then. Alone,” he said pointedly.
“Thank you,” Nate mumbled, then turned around to head back to their quarters.
“So, are yous going to leave me here?” Greasle asked, sounding surprisingly cheerful.
“I can’t,” Nate said glumly.
“I wouldn’t mind, you know.” The gremlin crawled all the way out of the pack and perched herself on Nate’s shoulder. “There’d be lots for me to eats.” She looked around at the nearby planes and licked her lips.
“I know,” Nate said. “And Aunt Phil would be furious with me. You heard what she said—I’m supposed to keep you away from the planes, not turn you loose on them.”
“Oh.” Greasle’s disappointment stung. Nate had thought they were friends. It was disheartening to learn she’d turn him aside for a bit of grease and oil.
Discouraged, Nate headed for their tent. The only good thing was that Aunt Phil didn’t know about his failed plan. He was grateful for that much, at least. With nothing else to do, Nate opened his rucksack to take out his sketchpad. His hand bumped into something round and hard.
The phoenix egg.
He lifted the treasure from his pack and carefully unwrapped the handkerchief that kept it from getting scratched or cracked. Both the egg and the handkerchief were coated in ash. The egg itself was about the size of his fist, and the colors of a deep sunset swirled in its depths. Just looking at it made Nate feel hopeful. He had succeeded with the phoenix. Surely he could take comfort in that. He set the egg down and began to draw.
A short while later, a disturbance outside the tent interrupted his thoughts. He hastily rewrapped the egg. Just as he was storing it safely in his pack, Aunt Phil called out to him. “Nathaniel? Could you come out here for a moment please?”
“Uh-oh,” Greasle said, crawling back into the pack. “Someone’s in trouble.”
Nate slowly opened the tent flap and peeked outside. Aunt Phil stood there with about half a dozen men, all of them looking angry. Nate swallowed. “Yes, Aunt Phil?”
She turned to him, her face no longer warm and friendly.
“That’s him,” a man yelled out, pointing. Nate recognized the pilot he’d asked for a ride. “He’s the one with the gremlin.”
An angry murmur went up from the small crowd. It was all Nate could do not to dive back into the tent and hide.
A mechanic in overalls with grease-stained hands stepped forward. “What’s the big idea, bringing one o’ them here?”
“Yeah!” Their voices grew louder.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Aunt Phil said. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll explain.”
“There ain’t no explanation, except you’re daft,” the mechanic said. “Now get on out of here before that critter attaches itself to one of our planes.”
“I’m afraid we can’t leave until our final crate arrives. However, as soon as it does—”
“I don’t think you understand. You’re leaving, or else.” The mechanic brandished a large wrench at Aunt Phil.
She drew herself up to her full height. “You are sorely mistaken if you think for one moment we are going to be intimidated by the likes of you. Yes, the boy has a gremlin—”
Mutters sprang up anew.
“Think!” she said. “He is a beastologist-in-training. How do you expect him to learn how to exterminate gremlins if he doesn’t have any experience with them?”
Some of the angry looks gave way to thoughtful ones. Nate stared at Aunt Phil in surprise. Was that why she let him keep Greasle? Because she wanted to teach him how to exterminate gremlins?
“Could any of you have learned how to fly a plane if you’d never gotten near one?” She met each one of their eyes, and slowly their angry gazes dropped.
“Still would be a good idea for you to get on your way,” someone muttered.
Just then, Mr. Pickle came lumbering in their direction lugging a large crate. Aunt Phil’s face lit up. “Aha! There’s our final delivery now. We’ll be on our way at once, gentlemen.” With those words, she grabbed Nate by the arm and dragged him back into their quarters, securing the tent flap firmly behind them.
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I thought I told you to keep that thing out of sight?”
Nate squirmed under her furious gaze. “I
tried to! Really. It’s just that . . .”
“It’s just what? Tell me while you pack because we are leaving here in precisely two minutes.”
Grateful for the chance to look away, Nate began to blindly stuff things into his rucksack. Just how mad was she, he wondered? What would his punishment be? Whenever Miss Lumpton had gotten angry with him, she’d taken away one of his few privileges. One time, she’d even left him behind on their weekly trip to town.
Wait! He glanced up at Aunt Phil, who was lashing down the last of her packs. Maybe this could turn out all right after all. “I’m sorry I got us in trouble with all those men,” he said. “But see,” he rushed to add, “that’s why you should leave me behind. I’m sure to make lots more mistakes. I warned you I wasn’t very good at this travel and adventure stuff.”
Aunt Phil laid the pack down on the cot. Her eyes were calmer now, and Nate found it a little easier to breathe. “Why are you so afraid of going to the Sudan?” she asked.
“’Scuse me?” Greasle poked her head out of Nate’s pack. “Have you even read that stupid beastie book of yours? That thing is dangerous! We won’ts last one minute around that basil lick thing.”
Aunt Phil glanced at Nate sharply and he thought she seemed mad again. “You consulted The Book of Beasts?”
Afraid to meet her gaze, he looked down at his feet. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize! As the next beastologist, you have as much right to that book as anyone.”
“I do?”
“Yes. I was only waiting for an opportunity to talk about the basilisk when there was more time to explain.” She paused a moment, then continued. “There is nothing to be worried about, you know. You’re merely to watch and learn this time around.”
“Watch and learn,” he repeated.
“Besides, you’re the only other Fludd left. The only one who can be a beastologist after I’m gone. We’ve got to stay on top of your training or you’ll never be ready.”
Nate wasn’t sure which was more upsetting: the thought of Aunt Phil passing away, or the responsibility for so many beasts falling on his shoulders. He wasn’t exactly great with animals. Nor did he have any of the necessary Fludd skills that would make him a good adventurer. The phoenix had been one thing. It was beautiful and not life threatening in any way. The basilisk was something else altogether. Something dangerous and terrifying.
With these unhappy thoughts circling in his head like vultures, Nate followed Aunt Phil to the plane.
Chapter Five
THE CRATE MR. PICKLE HAD BEEN CARRYING now waited for them near the plane. Beady eyes peered out between the slats.
“What is that?” Nate asked Aunt Phil.
“Our secret weapon against the basilisk,” she said, her voice cool.
The secret weapon threw itself against the side of the crate, wanting out. “But it’s so small!” Nate said.
“Don’t kid yourself, Nate. Small things can be dangerous, under the right circumstances. Here, now, put this under your feet. It’ll be a bit cramped, but there is simply no room in the cargo area. Not with all the fuel.”
Nate did not relish the idea of riding for twelve hours with his feet propped on something that could destroy the basilisk. He decided to try again. “If there isn’t any room for me . . .”
“Nonsense.” Aunt Phil’s voice was brisk, but he didn’t think there was any anger left in it. “There’s plenty of room. Now, get in so we can take off.”
Nate climbed into his seat and slipped his goggles on. He set his feet gingerly on top of the crate, then jerked them back at a sharp hissing sound. He sat with his knees pulled up next to his ears for two minutes before he realized he couldn’t fly across the entire Sahara like that. Slowly, he lowered his feet onto the crate again. This time, nothing happened. Even so, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t relax until the flight was over.
It was nearly dark when they drew in for a landing. Nate’s head ached and his eyes burned. He’d spent the whole day squinting down, trying to find the faint lines of the furrows that would keep them on course. He’d been terrified that if he looked away—even for just a moment—they’d lose their way.
“Hold on!” Aunt Phil called out. “There’s no landing strip here, so who knows how this old tub will handle it!”
Nate closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the plane. The jolt of the impact knocked his knees up into his chin. His teeth clacked together and he grunted as they bounced three more times, then hit a rock and bounced off to the side, before finally shuddering to a stop.
Greasle crept out of her hiding place, rubbing her elbow. “Someone needs to teach that old woman how to fly,” she muttered.
“Shh!” Nate glanced nervously at Aunt Phil. That was all he needed—for her to overhear the gremlin criticizing her flying skills. Nate creaked to his feet, grabbed his pack, and threw one very stiff leg over the side, then the other.
“Excellent job navigating with the furrows, Nate,” Aunt Phil said as she climbed awkwardly to the ground. “These old eyes of mine lost sight of them more than once, but you didn’t. Good work. Now let’s make camp.”
Nate took in the desolate area around the plane. It would be another uncomfortable night.
Chapter Six
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Nate found himself standing on the bank of a muddy brown river. “The Niger,” Aunt Phil announced. “The very river Isidore Fludd sailed down nearly five hundred years ago.”
Certainly the boat waiting for them looked as if it were the same one Isidore Fludd had used. It was nothing more than a rickety old canoe with a grass roof and a small motor. A man sat nearby, sipping from a metal flask. He had a dirty red scarf at his neck and his shirtsleeves rolled up. He hadn’t shaved in days. He was exactly the kind of person Nate’s old governess, Miss Lumpton, would have crossed the street to avoid.
When the man saw them, he hastily shoved the flask into his pocket and rose to his feet. “Le doctor, I presume?”
Aunt Phil nodded her head and eyed him warily. “Phil Fludd. And you would be . . . ?”
“Jean-Claude LaFou. At your service. Me and Queenie, that is.” He patted the canoe fondly.
Nate’s heart sank as he realized this was the captain. A brief look of dismay passed over Aunt Phil’s face as well, but she hid it quickly. “Excellent. You know the route, then?”
“Like the back of my hand. Get in and we’ll shove off.”
The next few minutes were spent trying to get everything into the canoe without tipping it over. Nate chose a spot as far away from Aunt Phil’s mysterious crate as possible. The captain’s assistant, Kwami, grabbed a pole and pushed them away from shore while the captain took a seat at the back of the boat. When he started up the motor, there was a furious rustling in Nate’s pack. Greasle poked her head out, her big eyes zeroing in on the small engine.
Aunt Phil cleared her throat and sent Nate a warning glance.
“Be good, now,” Nate reminded the gremlin.
“Me’s always good. But I smells lovely, tasty oil.” She stared longingly at the loud, clattering engine.
“Sacre bleu!” Jean-Claude said. “What is that?”
Kwami spoke rapidly, gesturing with the hand that wasn’t holding the river pole. Jean-Claude shook his head. “Non. That is no monkey.” He rubbed his eyes and peered at it again. “Le petite gargoyle, perhaps?”
“It’s a gremlin,” Nate explained.
“A grem-leen? Never heard of such a thing.” With his eyes still on Greasle, Jean-Claude’s free hand reached into his pocket for the flask. He took a quick sip, then replaced it, still eyeing Greasle warily.
The boat moved sluggishly through the silt-laden water. Nothing but sunbaked earth was visible as far as the eye could see. The heat of the early morning sun burned through Nate’s shirt, and he could feel prickles of sweat begin to form. He was glad for the hat that protected his head. The motor droned on, sounding like an angry hummingbird. Kwami’s pole dipped
and splashed in the river as he steered them. Nate’s eyes drifted shut and his head dropped to his chest.
“Nate!” He snapped awake to find Aunt Phil glaring at Greasle, who was slinking toward the motor.
He reached out and pulled the gremlin back. “Stop it!” he hissed. Didn’t she realize she was on thin ice with Aunt Phil?
Kwami’s excited shout interrupted his scolding. Nate’s mouth snapped shut as Jean-Claude leaped to his feet and grabbed a rifle from under his seat. Up ahead, Nate saw the river boiling and churning. His heart sank. Rapids? A waterfall?
“What is it?” Aunt Phil got to her feet, too, making the canoe wobble.
“Crocodiles,” Jean-Claude spat.
As they drew closer, Nate could make out the huge, long bodies and gaping jaws of a dozen crocodiles. There was a loud click behind him. Nate turned to find Jean-Claude taking aim with his rifle.
Before he could pull the trigger, Aunt Phil reached out and knocked the barrel aside so the shot went wide. “Stop that nonsense!” she said. “I am a beastologist, sir, and I will not stand idly by while you murder helpless animals.”
“Crocodiles? Helpless?” Jean-Claude said.
“We can fend them off in other ways,” Aunt Phil said rather primly. Then she turned to Kwami. “Are there more poles?”
He pointed to the bottom of the boat, where two other poles lay. “Excellent.” She picked one up and handed it to Nate, then took the second one for herself. “Well, put your gremlin away and stand up,” she told him. “We’ve work to do.”
“Don’t worry, I’m goin’,” Greasle said. “Don’t want to watch this anyway,” she muttered, burrowing back into Nate’s rucksack.
Using the pole to help balance himself, Nate slowly rose to his feet.
“You take the port side; I’ll take starboard,” Aunt Phil ordered.
Nate had no idea which side was which. He waited until she took up position on the right side, then he took up position on the left. Crocodiles surrounded the boat. Their sinister eyes peered up at him from the water’s surface.
The Basilisk's Lair Page 2
