“I do not mean you, my dear fellow. I assure you that I am delighted to make your acquaintance. It is all the others. Do you know that I have spent the greater part of my life being pursued? I was chased out of Egypt like a common game bird. Out of the mountains of Greece, too. The hills of Lebanon, the desert of Africa, the Arabian wilds—no matter where I fled, people would come prying and peering and sneaking after me. I have tried Tibet, China, and the steppes of Siberia—with the same result. At last I heard of a region where there was peace, where the inhabitants let each other alone. Here, I thought, I should–”
“Pardon me for interrupting. Where?”
“Why, here, to be brief,” said the bird, waving its wing toward the valley. “Here, I thought, I should be able to breathe. At my age one likes a little quiet. Would you believe that I am close to five hundred years old?”
“Golly!” said David. “You don’t look it.”
The bird gave a pleased laugh. “My splendid physical condition does conceal my years. At any rate, I settled here in the hope of being left alone. But do you think I was safe?”
David, seeing that he was supposed to answer no, shook his head.
“Quite right,” sighed the bird. “I was not. I had been here no more than three months when a Scientist was hot on my trail. A most disagreeable fellow, always sneaking about with binoculars, a camera, and, I fear, a gun. That is why you startled me for an instant. I thought you were he.”
“Oh,” David cried, “I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t bother you on purpose. It’s just that I never saw a mountain before, so I climbed up here to see what one looked like.”
“You climbed up here?”
“Yes.”
“Climbed,” said the bird, looking very thoughtful. “Climbed ... I might have known.... It proves, you see, that the same thing could be done again by someone older and stronger. A very grave point.”
“Oh, I see,” said David. “You mean the–”
“Precisely! The Scientist. He is, I fear, very persistent. I first noticed him over there”—the bird waved its wing toward the opposite side of the valley—“so I removed to this location. But he will undoubtedly continue his pursuit. The bad penny always turns up. It will not be long before the sharp scientific nose is again quivering in my direction.”
“Oh, dear, that’s terrible!”
“Your sympathy touches me,” said the bird huskily. “It is most unusual to find someone who understands. But have no fear for me. I am taking steps. I am preparing. Imagine his disappointment when he arrives here and finds me flown from the nest. I am, to be brief, leaving. Do you see this book?”
“Yes,” said David. “I heard you reading it, but I couldn’t understand it. Is it magic?”
“No, my boy, it is Spanish. I have chosen a little spot (chilly, but isolated) in the Andes Mountains. South America, you know. And of course one must be prepared. I am learning Spanish so that I shall be able to make my way about in South America. I must admit my extreme reluctance to depart. I have become very fond of this ledge. It is exactly suited to my needs—ideal climate, magnificent view....”
They fell into a lengthy silence. The bird gazed sadly out over the valley, and David rested his chin in his hands and thought. The mystery was clearing up. The bird’s presence on the mountain and the fact that it had been reading a book were explained. And so natural was its speech that David found himself accepting it as nothing unusual. The thing that worried him now was that the bird would soon leave. Here they had only just met, and already the promise of a most interesting friendship was dissolving. The bird had taken time to talk to him and explain things to him as though he were an equal. And although he did not understand many of the long words it used, he felt pleased at being spoken to as though he did understand. And the bird knew all about faraway countries—had visited them and lived in them and had adventures in them for almost five hundred years. Oh, there were so many things David wanted to know and ask about! But the bird was leaving. If only he could persuade it to stay, even for a short while! He could try, anyhow—after all, the bird had said itself that it did not want to go.
“Bird–” He stopped, and flushed. It was hard to put into words.
“Your servant, my boy.”
“Well—I—I don’t believe I know your name,” David stammered, unable to get the real question out.
“Ah, forgive me!” cried the bird, jumping up. “Permit me the honor of presenting myself. I daresay my name is familiar to you, celebrated as it is in song and story. I am the one and only, the Unique, Phoenix.” And the Phoenix bowed deeply.
“Very glad to meet you,” said David. “I’m David.”
“Delighted, my dear fellow! An honor and a pleasure.” They shook hand and wing solemnly. “Now, as you were saying—?”
“Well, Phoenix, I was just thinking,” David stammered. “It’s too bad—I mean, couldn’t you—it would be nice if we—Well, do you really have to go to South America? It would be nice if you’d stay a while, until the Scientist shows up, anyway—and I like talking with you....” His face burned. It seemed like a lot to ask.
The Phoenix harrumphed several times in its throat and shuffled its feet. “Really, I cannot tell you how—how much you—well, really—such a delightful request! Ah—harrumph! Perhaps it can be arranged.”
“Oh, Phoenix!” David threw his arms around the bird’s neck and then, unable to restrain himself any longer, turned a somersault on the grass.
“But for the present, it seems to be getting late,” said the Phoenix. “We shall talk it over some other time and decide.”
“Golly, it is late—I hadn’t noticed. Well, I’ll have to go, or they’ll worry about me at home. But I can come up and see you tomorrow, can’t I?”
“Of course, my boy! In the bustle of morning, in the hush of noon, in the—ah—to be brief, at any time.”
“And I’ll bring you some cookies, if you like.”
“Ah,” said the Phoenix, closing its eyes. “Sugar cookies, by any chance?” it asked faintly. David noticed the feathers of its throat jumping up and down with rapid swallowing motions.
“I’ll ask Aunt Amy to make some tonight.”
“Ah, splendid, my boy! Splendid! Shall we say not more than—ah—that is, not less than—ah—fifteen?”
“All right, Phoenix. My Aunt Amy keeps a big jar full of cookies, and I can have as many as I like.”
The Phoenix took David’s arm, and together they strolled to the other end of the ledge.
“Now, don’t mention this to anyone, but there is an old goat trail down this side. It is somewhat grown over, but eyes as sharp as yours should have no trouble with it. It will make your travels up and down easier. Another thing—I trust you will not make known our rendezvous?”
“Our what?”
“You will not tell anyone that I am here?”
“Oh, no. I won’t say a word! Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes. As the French so cleverly say it—ah—well, to be brief, good-by, my boy. Until tomorrow, then.”
David waved his hand, found the goat trail, and started down. He was too happy even to whistle, so he contented himself with running whenever he found a level place. And when he reached home, he stood on his hands in the back yard for two whole seconds.
3: In Which It Is Decided that David Should Have an Education, and an Experiment Is Made
Next day it took less than an hour to reach the ledge, and David was sure that he could shorten the time even more when he was familiar with the goat trail.
The Phoenix was not in sight when he arrived, and for an instant David was stricken with fright. Had the bird gone in spite of its promise? But no—he heard a reassuring noise. It came from the thicket, and it sounded very much like a snore.
David smiled to himself and shouted, “Hello, Phoenix!”
There was a thrashing sound in the thicket, and the Phoenix appeared, looking very rumpled and yawning behind its wing.
David thrust the bag of cookies behind his back. “Now, Phoenix,” he said firmly, “you have to promise me you won’t go away to South America. You said last night that it could be arranged, so let’s arrange it right now. Until we do, not one.”
The Phoenix drew itself up indignantly. “My very dear fellow,” it said, “you wound me. You cut me to the quick. I will not be bribed. I–” It stopped and swallowed again. “Oh, well,” it continued, more mildly, “one does not fight fate, does one? I suppose under these circumstances, I must accept.”
“It’s settled, then!” David cried joyfully.
So they sat down on the grass together, and for a long time nothing was heard but sounds of munching.
“My boy,” said the Phoenix at last, brushing the crumbs from its chest, “I take a modest pride in my way with words, but nothing in the language can do these—ah—baked poems justice. Words fail me.”
“I’m glad you like them,” David said politely.
“And now, my boy,” continued the Phoenix, as it settled back comfortably, “I have been thinking. Yesterday you showed an intelligent interest in my problems and asked intelligent questions. You did not scoff, as others might have done. You have very rare qualities.”
David flushed, and mumbled denials.
“Do not be so modest, my boy! I speak the truth. It came to me that such a mind as yours, having these qualities, should be further cultivated and refined. And I should be avoiding my clear-cut duty if I did not take this task in hand myself. Of course, I suppose some attempt to educate you has already been made, has it not?”
“Well, I go to school, if that’s what you mean. Not now, though, because it’s summer vacation.”
“And what do they teach you there?”
“Oh, reading and writing and arithmetic, and things like that.”
“Aha!” said the Phoenix triumphantly. “Just as I suspected—a classical education. Understand me—I have nothing against a classical education as such. I realize that mathematics, Greek, and Latin are excellent for the discipline of the mind. But in the broad view, a classical education is not a true education. Life is real, life is earnest. One must face it with a practical education. The problems of Life, my dear fellow!—classical education completely ignores them! For example, how do you tell a true Unicorn from a false one?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“I thought not. Where do you find the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then, I shall ask a simple one. What is the first rule of defense when attacked by a Chimera?”
David squirmed uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I don’t know that, either,” he said in a small voice.
“There you are!” cried the Phoenix. “You do not have a true, practical education—you are not ready for Life. I, my boy, am going to take your education in hand.”
“Oh,” said David. “Do you mean—are you going to give me—lessons?” Through his mind flashed a picture of the Phoenix (with spectacles on its beak and a ruler in its wing) writing out sentences on a blackboard. The thought gave him a sinking feeling. After all, it was summer—and summer was supposed to be vacation time.
“And what an education it will be!” the Phoenix went on, ignoring his question. “Absolutely without equal! The full benefit of my vast knowledge, plus a number of trips to–”
“Oh, traveling!” said David, suddenly feeling much better. “That’s different. Oh, Phoenix, that’ll be wonderful! Where will we go?”
“Everywhere, my boy!” said the Phoenix, with an airy wave of its wing. “To all corners of the earth. We shall visit my friends and acquaintances.”
“Oh, do you have–”
“Of course, my boy! I am nothing if not a good mixer. My acquaintances (to mention but a few) include Fauns, Dragons, Unicorns, Trolls, Gryffins, Gryffons, Gryffens–”
“Excuse me,” David interrupted. “What were those last three, please?”
“Gryffins,” explained the Phoenix, “are the small, reddish, friendly ones. Gryffons are the quick-tempered proud ones. Gryffens—ah, well, the most anyone can say for them is that they are harmless. They are very stupid.”
“I see,” said David doubtfully. “What do they look like?”
“Each looks like the others, my boy, except that some are bigger and some are smaller. But to continue: Sea Monsters, Leprechauns, Rocs, Gnomes, Elves, Basilisks, Nymphs—ah—and many others. All are of the Better Sort, since, as I have many times truly observed, one is known by the company one keeps. And your education will cost you nothing. Of course it would be agreeable if you could supply me with cookies from time to time.”
“As many as you want, Phoenix. Will we go to Africa?”
“Naturally, my boy. Your education will include–”
“And Egypt? And China? And Arabia?”
“Yes. Your education will–”
“Oh, Phoenix, Phoenix!” David jumped up and began to caper, while the Phoenix beamed. But suddenly he stopped.
“How are we going to travel, Phoenix?”
“I have wings, my boy.”
“Yes, but I don’t.”
“Do not be so dense, my dear fellow. I shall carry you on my back, of course.”
“Oh,” said David weakly, “on your—on your back. Are you sure that—isn’t there some other—I mean, can you do it?”
The Phoenix drew itself up to its full height. “I am hurt—yes, deeply hurt—by your lack of faith. My magnificent build should make it evident that I am an exceedingly powerful flyer. In the heyday of my youth I could fly around the world in five hours. But come along. I shall give you proof positive.”
David reluctantly followed the Phoenix to a spot on the edge of the shelf where there was a gap in the bushes. He glanced over the brink. The sheer face of the scarp fell away beneath them, plunging down to the tiny trees and rocks below. He stepped back quickly with a shudder.
“Let’s—let’s do it tomorrow,” he quavered.
“Nonsense,” said the Phoenix firmly. “No time like the present. Now, then, up on my back.”
“H-h-how am I going to sit?”
“On my back. Quite so—now, your arms around my neck—your legs behind my wings, please—there we are. Ready?”
“No,” said David faintly.
“Splendid! The proof is to be demonstrated, the—to be brief, we are off!”
The great wings were outstretched. David gulped, clutched the Phoenix’s neck tightly, and shut his eyes. He felt a hopping sensation, then a long, sickening downward swoop that seemed to leave his stomach far behind. A tremendous rush of air snatched at his shirt. He opened his eyes and choked with fright. The ground below was rushing up to meet them, swaying and revolving. Something was terribly wrong. The Phoenix was breathing in hoarse gasps; its wings were pounding the air frantically. Now they had turned back. The scarp loomed before them, solid and blank. Above them—high above them—was the ledge. It looked as though they would not get back to it.
Up ... up ... up.... They crawled through the air. The wings flapped wildly, faster and faster. They were gaining—slipping back—gaining again. The Phoenix sobbed as it stretched its neck in the last effort. Fifty feet ... twenty feet ... ten.... With a tremendous surge of its wings, the Phoenix managed to get one claw over the edge and to seize the branch of a bush in its beak. David’s legs slipped from the bird’s back. He dangled over the abyss from the outstretched neck, and prayed. The bush saved them. They scrabbled up over the edge, tottered there for an instant, and dropped on the grass.
For a long time they lay gasping and trembling.
At last the Phoenix weakly raised its head. “Puff—well, my boy—puff puff—whew!—very narrow squeak. I—puff–”
David could not answer. The earth reeled under him and would not
stop no matter how tightly he clutched the grass.
“Puff—I repeat, I am—puff—an exceedingly powerful flyer. There are few birds—none, I daresay—who—puff—could have done even this much. The truth of the matter is that you are a lot—puff—heavier than you look. I hope you are not being overfed at home?”
“I—I don’t know,” said David, wondering whether or not he was going to be sick.
“Well, my course is clear,” said the Phoenix firmly. “I must practice. Setting-up exercises, roadwork, and what not. Rigorous diet. Lots of sleep. Regular hours. Courage, my dear fellow! We shall do it yet!”
And so for the following week the Phoenix practiced.
Every morning David climbed up to the ledge, bringing sandwiches for himself, cookies for the Phoenix, and a wet towel. Then, while he kept count, the Phoenix did setting-up exercises. After this, the bird would jog trot up and down the ledge and practice jumping. Then there would be a fifteen-minute rest and refreshment period. And when that was over, the Phoenix would launch itself into the air. This was the part David liked best. It was a magnificent sight. The Phoenix dashed back and forth at top speed, wheeled in circles, shot straight up like a rocket—plunged, hovered, looped—rolled, soared, fluttered. Now and then it would swoop back to the ledge beside David and wipe the sweat from its brow.
“I trust you see signs of progress, my boy?”
David would wrap the wet towel around the Phoenix’s neck. “You’re doing better and better, Phoenix. I especially like that part where you twist over on your back and loop and plunge, all at the same time.”
“I do perform that rather well, don’t I? It is not easy. But just the thing for acquiring (ouch!) muscle tone. Are there any more cookies? Ah, there are. Delicious! As I was saying, let this be a lesson to you, my boy. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”
The Phoenix would take wing again. And David would settle back against a rock and watch. Sometimes he thought of the education he was to get. Sometimes he thought how nice it would be if he could fly. And sometimes he did not think at all, but just sat with his eyes half shut, feeling the sunlight on his face and listening to the rustle of the wind in the thicket.
David and the Phoenix Page 2
