“That’s not really what we’re eating, is it?” Trundle asked.
The scraggy old hare just threw back his head and screeched with laughter.
After breakfast, they took the Thief in the Night into the reef, following the largest and straightest of the channels. The fact that there were no winds inside the maze of rocks only made things more difficult. Furling the sails, they took turns working the treadles in the rear of the skyboat to drive it along with its little stern-mounted propeller.
The weather had gradually been getting more chilly as they traveled away from the sun, but now that they were inside the shadowy reef, they finally began to feel properly cold. Warmer underwear was dug out of their hoard, and this was topped off with the odd scarf and muffler and extra pair of woolen socks.
It was hard going with the treadles, made no easier by the fact that Ishmael was quite unable to help them. Within moments of his sitting on the treadle seat and starting to pump away with his legs, his long, ungainly feet got tangled and he ended up flat on his face in the bottom of the boat. Finally they just sat him at the prow and let him shout useless instructions: “Left hand down a bit—right hand up a bit—steady as she goes—there’s a big rock—oooh, look, a boulder!” as they plowed onward.
Despite this, things seemed to be going reasonably well until, without any warning, the passageway corkscrewed, twisted, turned head over heels, and tied itself into a knot, leaving them with no option but to head back and start all over again.
The next channel they followed widened and straightened, leading them deeper into the middle of the reef. Esmeralda was pedaling while Trundle and Jack stood at either bow, fending off the bigger chunks of rock.
“I think we’re on to something here!” she puffed, her knees going up and down as the propeller whirred. “At this rate we’ll be through and out the other side before we know it!”
And then, as if to drive them all as mad as Ishmael, they came out into a small open area and saw at least twenty different channels opening up ahead of them.
“This is hopeless!” gasped Trundle. “We’ll never find our way through.”
“Look, we’ve been at it all morning.” Esmeralda rubbed her aching legs. “Let’s stop here for a spot of lunch and then consider our options.”
“A tip-top notion!” cackled Ishmael. “And what say young Jack Nimble here lightens the load with a jolly tune or two to warm us all up and to get our toes a-tapping?”
“Whatever.” Esmeralda sighed as the skyboat came to a halt.
Jack got out his rebec and started to play the tune of the phoenix song from the night before. It was rather jolly, and soon Esmeralda and Trundle were clapping along again and Ishmael was dancing on the spot as he peeled potatoes and boiled up some water on the stove.
“That’s quite a dance you’ve got going there, Ishmael,” Jack said.
“It is that, to be sure,” said Ishmael. “It’s an old hornpipe me great-grandpappy taught to me when I was just a nippy little nipper—it’s always danced to that there melody you’re playing, me lad.” He stirred some steaming sauce. “It’s called Lord Slatterkin’s Fancy.”
Trundle sat bolt upright. “It’s called what?”
“Lord Slatterkin’s Fancy,” Ishmael repeated, his feet hopping and bopping and flipping and flapping as if they had a life of their own.
Jack’s music came to a sudden halt, and all three of them stared at Ishmael.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Jack said. “We’re in a place called Slatterkin’s Reef—and Ishmael here is dancing a dance called Lord Slatterkin’s Fancy.” He looked at Jack and Esmeralda. “Anyone notice a strange coincidence?”
“Coincidence be blowed!” said Esmeralda. “It’s the Fates, that’s what this is! The Fates are showing us the way out of here. Ishmael, start the dance again from the beginning!” Her eyes gleamed. “Watch closely, everyone. See exactly what he does.”
Ishmael began to prance about, chattering along to himself as he bounded around the skyboat. “Five hops left and round ye go, two hops right and do-si-do! Three hops forward, one hop back, with a wiggle and a waggle, go through the crack.”
Esmeralda stood up and stared at the channels. “Fifth to the left,” she said, pointing at one of the dark holes. “That’s the one! Trundle—man the treadles, there’s a good fellow. We’re going to follow the steps of this dance, and I’ll bet you every prickle on your back that it’ll lead us out of here before we know it!”
And so, with Ishmael March calling out the steps as he danced, and Jack bowing the rebec and Trundle pedaling for all he was worth and Esmeralda yelling directions, the Thief in the Night made its way through the maze of tunnels and causeways and channels and passages.
The fifth channel curved around and ended in a fork.
“Two hops right,” said Esmeralda, pointing to the right-hand fork. “That way!”
“What’s a do-si-do?” asked Trundle.
The channel they were in tilted abruptly upward then dropped down again.
“That is.” Jack laughed.
Suddenly they were confronted with one passageway that seemed to lead forward, and another that threatened to take them straight back to where they had started.
“One hop back,” said Trundle. “We need to follow the tunnel that looks like the wrong one!”
“Now you’re getting it,” said Esmeralda.
They headed into the channel. After a short distance, it began to zigzag violently from side to side and actually ended up turning over itself in a hairpin bend and sending them back the way they had wanted to go all along.
“Now that’s what I call a wiggle and a waggle,” said Esmeralda. “Lawks, this is working!”
On and on they went, always choosing the tunnels and passageways suggested by the steps of Ishmael’s crazy dance, until—quite suddenly, it seemed—they pushed through a narrow gap between two huge boulders and burst out into bright afternoon sunlight.
Three hearty cheers echoed across the skies of the Sundered Lands.
They were through the reef!
Trundle stopped pedaling and Jack stopped playing as the Thief in the Night floated clear of the great black reef.
Only Ishmael seemed unaware of their success. His arms and legs and ears worked furiously as he danced on, his eyes closed in concentration and his mouth spread in a wide, fixed toothy grin.
“Uh…Ishmael?” Esmeralda called to him.
“Swing your bottom through the air, leap out into empty air…,” panted the frantic hare.
“Ishmael!” Esmeralda hollered.
“Yes…your…highmostness…?”
“We’re out of the reef. You can stop now.”
His limbs stopped flailing and his huge eyes popped open. “Now that’s a pity,” he said. “I was just getting into me stride.” His eyes widened and he pointed over the prow. “Drop me drawers and paint me backside blue! What’s that?”
The other three had already spotted it. A solitary island was floating, lonely and forlorn, in the distance—and rising from the middle of it was a tall, cone-shaped mountain.
“That, my friend,” declared Jack, “is the land of the legendary phoenix bird!” He let out a relieved laugh. “I’ll eat my rebec and bow, rosin and all, if it isn’t!”
Esmeralda wetted a finger and lifted it to test the air. “And there’s a fine strong wind to take us there,” she said. “Jack, unfurl the sails. We’re away to journey’s end!”
It wasn’t long before the sail was up and the Thief in the Night was skimming jauntily through the clear cold skies. Trundle’s elation began to dwindle a little as the lone island came closer. It looked like a miserable, desolate place: a barren land of gray rocks and pale, scrubby grasses and dead trees. The mountain reared upward, its wrinkled sides streaked with yellow stains. The only sign of life anywhere was the yellowish smoke that clung about the high, broken-edged cone.
“Are we absolutely sure this is the right place?�
�� Trundle wondered aloud. He couldn’t quite imagine the glorious and marvelous phoenix bird choosing to live on such a glum and lifeless lump of rock.
“The feather seems to think so,” Jack replied. Trundle looked over his shoulder. The feather was writhing and straining and pulling at the nail that held it as if desperate to get to the island.
“But it’s so…so…bleak,” Trundle said.
“That’s probably to keep tourists away,” suggested Esmeralda. “I expect the phoenix was sick and tired of people constantly bothering him, telling him how beautiful and marvelous he was and asking for his autograph and so on. That’s probably why he came here in the first place—to get away from all the razzmatazz.”
Jack nodded enthusiastically. “I’m sure it’ll look quite different inside the cone of the mountain. This is just camouflage. His nest will be utterly gorgeous and completely fabulous—just you wait and see!”
“Shall we fly straight up and in there, then?” asked Trundle.
“No, not at all,” said Jack. “That would be most rude. We’ll make landfall lower down the mountain and walk the rest of the way. We don’t want to annoy him by plopping uninvited right in his lap, do we?”
“Especially not when we want him to tell us how to find the Crown of Fire,” added Esmeralda. “Best keep on his good side, you know?”
The dismal island gradually came closer.
“Er, can anyone smell something…odd?” asked Trundle, sniffing the chill air. He wrinkled his snout. “Something not particularly pleasant?”
“Don’t look at me,” declared Ishmael. “I didn’t do it!”
“I think it’s coming from the island,” said Trundle. He sniffed again. “In fact, I’m sure it is. Pooh! What is it? Stinks like rotten eggs.”
“I think it’s sulfur,” said Jack. “Those yellowy clouds and those yellow streaks down the sides of the mountain are probably caused by escaping gases. It’s not very nice, I’ll grant you, but I don’t think it’s harmful.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Esmeralda.
The unpleasant reek got gradually stronger as they sailed nearer to the island. By the time the Thief in the Night came in to settle lightly on the stony ground of a ridge about a third of the way up the mountain, the stench was almost overpowering.
Fortunately, Jack found a piece of cloth, which he managed to tear into strips for them to tie over their muzzles and at least keep out the worst of the foul odor.
Trundle stood at the mast, using a knife to loosen the nail that was still holding the berserk feather as it struggled and fought to get free. As the nail came away, he just managed to snatch hold of the end of the feather before it zoomed off. Clutching it tightly, he stepped over the bow and joined the other three on the mountain. The ground felt oddly warm underfoot.
“All right, then,” said Esmeralda. “Follow me, boys. And remember—when we meet the phoenix, be polite and well behaved and sensible. Don’t get all gushy and idiotic just because he’s legendary and stuff. Oh, and Ishmael?”
“Yes, your worshipness?”
“Dial down the loony a tad, if you can, please. And no mention of wild bird recipes, got me?”
“Right you are!” chirruped Ishmael with a big grin. “You can trust old Ishmael to pack the giddy goat away with the monkeys in the kiddies’ puzzle box, to be sure, you can!”
“Hmm,” said Esmeralda. “If you say so. Trundle, keep an eye on him, will you? And if he looks like he’s going to say something embarrassing, that strip of cloth over his nose will work a treat as a gag, if you catch my drift.”
And so they began the uphill trek.
It wasn’t much fun. The mountain was steep and the ground underfoot was loose and slithery, and every now and then a stone or two would slip away under their feet and go rolling and rumbling down in a cloud of gray smoke.
Here and there, sad, broken stumps of trees jutted out of the ground at curious angles, their leafless branches seeming to claw feebly at the sky. The occasional tuft of thin, wiry grass rustled in the slow-moving air, but there was no sight or sound of any animal life. As they climbed, they did their best to avoid the streaky smears of bubbling yellow sulfur that ran thick and stinky down the mountain’s barren flanks.
If Esmeralda was right, and the phoenix had chosen this island to keep people away, then he’d certainly picked the perfect spot. In fact, the only enthusiastic member of the party was the feather. It became more and more excited as they climbed, until Trundle was only just able to keep hold of it.
“What’s that noise?” asked Jack, pausing and lifting a paw. “Do you hear it? An odd rumbling kind of noise.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Ishmael. “I didn’t do it!”
Jack was right. Now that Trundle stopped and listened, he too was aware of the strange sound: a rolling, grumbling, wheezing noise that seemed to be coming from the top of the mountain. More than anything else, it reminded him of someone sawing logs with a blunt and rusty saw.
Grumble-rumble—wheeeeeeeze—grumblerumble—wheeeeeeze.
There was a slow rhythm to the rumbling and grumbling that was very familiar, except that Trundle couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
They carried on climbing. The curious noise grew louder and more insistent. The feather danced and cavorted in Trundle’s paw.
At last they were at the rim of the cone, and the rhythmic refrain was all around them.
Grumble-rumble—wheeeeeeeze—grumblerumble—wheeeeeeze.
Trundle stared down into the huge, cauldron-shaped hollow. He had been hoping—expecting, in fact—to see something unutterably wonderful, but all that seemed to be down there was swirling clouds of stinky yellow smoke that made his eyes water and tickled in his throat.
“Is this it?” asked Esmeralda, staring into the volcano.
“Um…,” began Jack. “Perhaps—”
He got no further before a gust of wind came prancing over the lip of the volcano and dived down inside, stirring the yellow clouds and scattering them so that suddenly the four travelers had a much clearer view.
And what they saw quite took their breath away.
It was the phoenix nest!
But it was nothing like they had been expecting.
Far from being marvelous and glorious, the nest was a huge ruinous heap of spiky briars and thorny brambles, all tangled together in the bottom of the crater. And lying curled up on its side in the middle of the whole ugly mess was the most gigantic, mangy, decrepit, wrinkled old bird imaginable, with drool running from its open beak and horrid yellow crusty gunk around its tightly closed eyes. And even as they stood gaping at the unbelievable sight, a rasping sound blasted from the phoenix’s rear end.
“Pardon me,” muttered the phoenix in a sleepy, cracked old voice as a wave of foul air wafted up toward them.
“Granted!” chortled Ishmael.
Esmeralda turned very slowly to Jack. “That,” she began heavily, as if she were having trouble putting her feelings into words, “that thing…that thing down there…” Her voice rose to a shriek. “That thing down there is your marvelous and beautiful phoenix bird?”
Another loud report sounded from the sleeping bird’s rear end.
“Beg pardon,” it croaked.
“Granted again,” cackled Ishmael. “A person must strain his greens when the wind blows from the north.”
Trundle clapped his paw to his nose as the gust of evil air reached them.
Jack blinked down at the bird. “You can’t blame me for this!” he said rapidly. “I’m as disappointed as the rest of you. Blame the people who made up the legend! Blame the songwriters! I was just repeating what I was told. Who would have expected it to look like that? Not me! It’s a swindle, that’s what it is. It’s chicanery and distortion and…and…downright fibbing! We should take legal action. We should sue someone.” His voice became a miserable wail. “It’s not my fault!”
For a few moments, no one said anything.
“We are
quite certain this is the phoenix, are we?” Trundle asked at last.
“What else could it be?” Esmeralda replied. “Percy told us the legends say the phoenix lives in a volcano at the end of the world. This is a volcano, sure enough, and I’m guessing we’re pretty much at the far end of the Sundered Lands.”
“And apart from where it’s gone gray, or its feathers have fallen out, its plumage is the same color as the feather that brought us here,” Jack added. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think there can be any doubt about it. That mangy old wreck down there is the phoenix we’ve been searching for.”
“Lawks a-mussy,” breathed Esmeralda. “Who’da thought it?”
“Blimey,” groaned Trundle. “Talk about a letdown!”
“There’s not much meat on him for roasting, the poor old codger,” said Ishmael. “But on the bright side, he’ll boil up a treat for stock, if we can find a big enough pot.”
“Be quiet, Ishmael, we’re still not eating him,” said Esmeralda. Her voice became quite matter-of-fact, and she rubbed her paws together briskly. “Well, then, I suppose we’d better send someone down there to talk to him. We need him to tell us where to find the Crown of Fire, don’t forget.” She looked from Jack to Trundle. “Any volunteers?”
Prrrrrrrrrrrph! sounded from the phoenix, followed by a muttered, “Beg pardon.”
“Lummee!” groaned Jack, clutching his nose. “Down there? I don’t think so.”
“It’s not fair, just one of us having to go down,” said Trundle. “We should all go.”
“Last one down’s a pickled pilchard!” chortled Ishmael, jumping over the lip of the wide cauldron and prancing down its steep slope toward the nest.
“Quick, after him!” said Esmeralda. “For all we know he’ll start trussing the phoenix up for the oven!”
Trundle and Jack and Esmeralda scrambled down in Ishmael’s cavorting wake. It wasn’t till they had slithered and slid and scrabbled and scrobbled all the way down to the twisted and knotted nest that they got a real impression of the full size of the ancient bird. They peered up at the phoenix through the tangled brambles.
Fire Over Swallowhaven Page 5
