“David, dear,” said Mother with an awkward laugh, “I think you’d better go upstairs and wash and change.”
When David came into the living room again, the guest was talking excitedly. “... completely unknown to man,” he was saying. “It’s the discovery of the age. My name will be famous if I succeed in my plans.”
“How fascinating!” Mother said. “And to think of it happening right here!”
“And it’s huge,” the guest said, “simply huge. And brilliantly colored. For a scientist like myself, it’s more than fascinating.”
David was listening now. Scientist? Scientist! His heart missed a beat, and he choked. Oh, no, it couldn’t be the Scientist. Or could it?
“David here spends all his time up on the mountain,” his father said. “Maybe he’s seen it.”
The guest turned his big, pale, unpleasant eyes on David. “Well, David,” he said, “maybe you can help me. Now, have you seen anything unusual on the mountain?”
“Unusual?” said David unsteadily. There was a pain in his chest from the pounding of his heart.
“Yes, David,” the guest went on, “unusual. So unusual that you couldn’t miss it: a very large bird with bright plumage.”
The floor under David seemed to rock. It was true, then—it was horribly true. This was the Scientist who had been chasing the Phoenix. This was their enemy.
“Bird?” David dodged. “Wh-wh-why, there are lots of birds up there. Sparrows and meadow larks and—and sparrows....”
“But nothing like a huge bird with bright feathers?”
Well, he would have to tell a lie. After all, it was for the Phoenix’s sake.
“No,” said David.
“Ah,” said the Scientist. But his cold eyes bored into David’s for another instant, plainly saying, “I’m not fooled, young man.”
“It’s odd,” he continued, “that no one has seen it. But I have no doubt it’s somewhere here. I am going to begin my search as soon as my equipment gets here.”
“Tell us about it,” said Mother politely.
“Well, I discovered it on the other side of the valley, you know,” said the Scientist eagerly. “Quite by accident—I was really looking for another species. Now, birds, you know, have fixed habits. If you know those habits, you can predict just what they will do at any time. This particular bird was a daytime creature, so I tried to watch it between dawn and dusk. But it seemed to have a mind of its own—you might almost say an intelligence. It avoided me in a very clever way, and it avoided my traps also. Uncanny! So after several weeks I decided to shoot it if I got the chance. Then suddenly it disappeared, but I’m certain it came over to this side of the valley–”
There was no escape from the subject during dinner. The Scientist could think and talk of nothing else. He described the merits of deadfalls, snares, steel traps, and birdlime. He asked which they thought would make the best bait, a rabbit, a beefsteak, a live lamb, or carrion. He told them all about the new high-powered, long-range rifle which he had ordered. And he vowed to them all that he would not rest until the bird was either caught or killed “for the advancement of human learning.”
David listened with horror. The dinner before him went untouched. His only thought was that now he would have to warn the Phoenix as soon as possible. The Phoenix would go to South America after all, and his education would end before it had even started. All because of this hateful man! He fought to hold back his tears.
Dinner was over at last. David mumbled his excuses and ducked out of the dining room, but Aunt Amy seized him firmly just as he thought he had got away.
“Bedtime for you, David,” she said firmly.
“Oh, Aunt Amy, please! I’ve got to–”
“Upstairs, young man. You’ve had enough gallivanting around for one day. You’re all worn out.”
“I’m not!” said David, struggling. “I feel fine. Look, I just have to–”
It was useless. She marched him upstairs to his room and stood in the doorway until he had undressed and put on his pajamas and got into bed.
“Now,” she said, “you go to sleep. The mountain will still be there in the morning—unless there’s a landslide. Good night.” And she turned out the light and shut the door.
This was awful! He could not sneak downstairs, because the stairs could be seen from the living room. He could not climb out of his window, because a rose arbor was directly beneath it, and he would be ripped by the thorns. And Mother always came in to say good night before she went to bed. If he was not there when she came in tonight, there would be a lot of unpleasant explaining to do. The only thing, then, was to wait until the Scientist went home and everyone was in bed.
It was a maddening wait. The Scientist’s voice went on and on like the drone of an electric fan, interrupted only by an occasional murmur from Mother or Dad. For a while David sat in bed twisting the sheets in his hands; then he got up and paced the room in his bare feet. It seemed to him that three or four whole nighttimes had passed before he finally heard all three voices raised and talking at once.
The Scientist was going! Now they were saying good-by at the front door ... now the door was being closed ... now there were footsteps on the stairs. He jumped into bed just before Mother put her head in and said, “Good night, dear.” David murmured, pretending to be half asleep. His door closed again. The light switches snapped, and there was silence.
He waited another half hour to make sure everyone was asleep. As quickly and silently as he could, he pulled on his clothes, crept out of his room, and slid cautiously down the bannister. In the back yard he put on his shoes, dived through the hedge, and started to race up the mountainside.
Fortunately there was a nearly-full moon and no clouds in the sky. But even with this light, it was not easy to keep to the trail. Several times he lost his way, so that the trip took much longer than usual. But he found the ledge at last, climbed over the final difficult rock, and sat down to catch his breath. When he could speak, he called softly:
“Phoenix!”
There was no answer.
“Phoenix!” He pushed through the thicket to the other side of the ledge. “Phoenix!”
The Phoenix was gone.
The tears that had been stopped up all evening could be held no longer. David dropped to the ground, leaned his forehead against a rock, and let them go. He had just remembered. As soon as they had come back from the Gryffon adventure, the Phoenix had flown off on some sort of business. And it had not said when it would return.
The tears cleared David’s mind and made him feel better. Now what? He began to think. If he stayed on the ledge all night, they might find out at home and make a terrible fuss. But if he did not warn the Phoenix before morning, the Scientist might creep up while the bird was resting and trap it or shoot it. So he would have to warn the Phoenix and return home. And the only way to do both these things was to write the Phoenix a note.
But he had neither paper nor pencil.
A fine mess he had made of everything! Now he would have to go all the way back home, write the note, come all the way back up to the ledge, and then go home again.
David trudged down the mountainside in a very low mood. Now that he had a definite plan to work on, his fear was gone, but he felt that he had been pretty stupid to rush off without thinking of everything first. In his mind he could hear the Phoenix saying, “Look before you leap, my boy,” and other wise words of advice. And he had cried, too. Lucky that no one had been there to see that.
As he approached the house he was surprised to see all the lights ablaze and to hear his name being called. “Oh-oh,” he thought, “they’ve found out I’ve gone.”
“Here I am!” he shouted, opening the door. “What’s the matter?”
It was a strange sight which met him inside. Dad, in his gray pajamas, was waving a revolver and making fierce noises. Mother, looking frightened, had a shoe in one hand. Aunt Amy, with her hair in rags, was also well-armed—with a big cast-
iron frying pan. Beckie was howling upstairs.
“David!” Mother cried. “Are you all right? Where have you been? Did he hurt you?”
“Who?” said David. “I’m all right. What’s the matter?”
“The burglar!” said Mother excitedly. “He put his head in the window and said ‘pssssst!’”
“I tell you, burglars don’t say pssssst!” Dad said. “They try to make as little noise as possible. Just let me catch him doing it again!” he added, waving his pistol.
“Running around on that mountain at all hours of the night,” Aunt Amy grumbled, “with burglars and I don’t know what-all loose in town!”
“And then we found that you were gone, and we thought he had stolen you,” Mother went on. “Where have you been?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” said David. “So I went for a walk.”
“Well, thank heavens you’re safe,” said Mother.
“Hankering after that mountain all night,” Aunt Amy muttered. “As if he wasn’t up there all day.”
“Look here, Son,” said Dad. “What do you know about this?”
“Honestly, Dad,” said David, “I couldn’t sleep. There’s nothing wrong with that. I can’t help it if I can’t sleep. So I took a walk. There’s nothing wrong with–”
“Oh, all right, all right,” his father said. “I suppose it’s just a coincidence. Let’s all get back to sleep. And, David, the next time you can’t sleep, try counting sheep.”
Gradually the house calmed down. Beckie stopped wailing, Dad put away his gun, good nights were said, the lights were turned off.
David knew that it would be at least an hour before he dared to move again, and he would have to be doubly careful this time. And he was a little nervous himself now about that burglar. What if he should meet him when he went out again? He tried to forget about that by thinking of what he would put in the note for the Phoenix.
He had got as far as “Dear Phoenix:” and was wondering how you spelled “Phoenix,” when there came a swish and a thump at his window, followed by a cautious whisper:
“Pssssst!”
David felt his scalp prickle. “Wh-wh-who’s that?” he quavered.
“Is that you, my boy?” whispered a familiar, guarded voice. “Ah, thank heavens!”
And the Phoenix crawled through the window.
Weak with relief, David snapped on the bedside light. The Phoenix presented a shocking sight. Its face was drawn with fatigue, and it looked rather draggled. Its back sagged, its wings drooped to the floor, and it walked with a limp.
“Oh, Phoenix, Phoenix!” David whispered. He jumped to support the bird before it collapsed entirely.
“Ah, thank you, my boy,” the Phoenix murmured. “Your bed, I presume? May I? Thank you.” The springs creaked under its weight as the Phoenix gingerly lay down.
“What a night, my boy, what a night!” it sighed weakly, closing its eyes.
“Oh, Phoenix, what happened? Can I do anything for you?” David whispered.
“A damp, cooling cloth upon my forehead would be welcome, my boy,” murmured the Phoenix. “Also a bit of nourishment.”
David slid down the bannister, got a handful of cookies and a glass of milk, and dampened a dish towel. When he returned, the Phoenix was fast asleep.
“Phoenix,” he whispered, “wake up. Here’s your–”
The Phoenix awoke with a violent start and stared wildly around the room. “Trapped!” it muttered, making a frenzied effort to get off the bed.
“Not so loud!” David whispered sharply. “It’s me!”
Understanding dawned in the Phoenix’s eyes, and it eased itself back with a sigh. “Ah, you, my boy. You gave me quite a fright. I thought–” But here the Phoenix caught sight of the milk and cookies and sat up again.
“Ambrosia,” it sighed reverently. “And nectar. You are a prince, my dear fellow!” And the Phoenix reached out eagerly.
“Now, Phoenix,” David whispered as he wrapped the wet towel around the Phoenix’s head, “what’s happened?”
“Ah, that feels heavenly, my boy! (Munch munch.) What has happened? (Munch munch. Gulp.) I was insulted, I accepted a challenge, and I brilliantly maintained my honor. Let that be a lesson to you, my boy: death before dishonor. Yes, in spite of my age, I–”
“But Phoenix, what happened?”
“To be brief, then, my boy, for brevity is the soul of wit—although I am not trying to be witty now; I am simply too worn out—Brevity—ah—where was I?”
“I think you were telling me what happened to you tonight,” David said.
“Ah, yes, quite so! Well, I raced the Witch, to put it quite simply.”
“Oh, Phoenix! Did you win?”
“She said that she would ‘beat my tail feathers off,’ did she not? Behold, my dear fellow—every tail feather intact!”
“Good for you, Phoenix! How did it go?”
“I found her somewhere over Scotland and accepted her challenge. We jockeyed about for starting positions, and she insulted me by offering me a handicap—which, of course, I refused. For several hundred miles it was nip and tuck, as it were. Then, over Luxembourg, I put all my energies into a magnificent sprint and won the race by three and a half broom lengths. She claimed a foul and went off in a fit of sulks, of course. (I never saw a Witch who was a good loser.) And I—well, the fact is, my boy, that I am not as young as I used to be. I simply crawled home.”
“Oh, you poor Phoenix! But you won, though. Good for you, Phoenix. I’m proud of you! I didn’t like her at all.”
“There you are—I had to win, for both of us. Now, as I wended my weary way homeward, I realized that I should be too tired to go traveling tomorrow. So I decided to tell you, in case you should want to do something else during the day. But I did not know which house was yours. I had to pick one at random. I thrust my head in a window and uttered a cautious pssssst! Imagine my dismay when I was answered by a piercing scream! I had to beat a hasty and undignified retreat into a garage until all was peaceful again. Then I did the same thing at the next house, and the next, with the same results.” The Phoenix sighed. “Would you believe it, my boy?—this is the fifth house I tried. But I knew I was on the right track when I heard them calling for you.”
“Oh, so it was you,” said David. “You almost frightened Mother to death. She thought you were a burglar.”
“My dear fellow, I am really sorry for having caused any misunderstanding or fright,” said the Phoenix apologetically. “It was just that I wanted to tell you of my victory—that is, to tell you that I should be indisposed tomorrow.”
Then David recalled that he had something to say too. The shock of remembering was such that he blurted out the news without thinking of softening the blow.
“Phoenix, listen! The Scientist is here!”
The Phoenix sat up in bed with a jerk, and David barely suppressed its startled exclamation by clamping a hand over its beak.
“It’s not so bad yet,” he whispered hurriedly, “because he’s not sure where you are, and he has to wait for his equipment to get here. But, oh, Phoenix, now I suppose you’ll go to South America after all, and I won’t have any more education.”
The Phoenix leaped to its feet and struck a defiant pose. “My boy,” it said angrily, “you are mistaken. I refuse to be chased around any longer. Even the lowly worm turns. Am I a mouse, or am I the Phoenix? If that insufferable man wishes to pursue me further, if he cannot mind his own business, then, by Jove, we shall meet him face to face and FIGHT TO THE FINISH!”
Its voice, which had been getting louder and louder, ended in an indignant squawk (its battle cry, as it explained later). David’s warning ssh! was too late. They heard rapid footsteps and the sound of light switches snapping.
“Quick!” David said. “Out the window!”
With a hasty “Farewell, my boy,” the Phoenix plunged headlong toward the window—and tripped over the sill. There was a resounding crash outside as the bird landed on the r
ose arbor, a brief but furious thrashing and muttering, and then the receding flurry of wings.
Dad burst into the room with his revolver, followed by Mother and Aunt Amy (with two frying pans, this time).
“He stuck his head in the window and said pssssst! at me!” David cried. “A big dark shape in the window!”
This time Dad telephoned the police. In no time at all, three carloads of weary policemen were swarming over the house and yard, with guns and flashlights drawn. It was the fifth—or was it the sixth?—call they had received from the neighborhood that night, they explained. There followed an hour of questions, arguments, and theories, during which everyone became very excited. Everyone, that is, except David—although he acted excited to avoid suspicion. But he was happy. He had warned the Phoenix, the Phoenix was going to stay, and there was nothing to worry about until tomorrow.
6: In Which the Phoenix Has a Plan, and David and the Phoenix Call On a Sea Monster
“Well, you’re in all the papers this morning, Phoenix,” said David, as he sat down beside the reclining bird next morning. “They don’t know who you are, but they’re all talking about what happened last night. They call you the ‘Whispering Burglar.’ Thepolice are pretty worried.”
“My dear chap,” said the Phoenix apologetically, “let me repeat my sincere regrets for causing alarm. It was not my desire to—the police, did you say? Have they discovered any clues?”
“No,” said David reassuringly. “They can’t find a thing. They think the Whispering Burglar climbed up a ladder to say pssssst! into the upstairs windows. Only they can’t find the ladder. They call it the ‘Missing Mystery Clue.’”
The Phoenix gazed at the sky and mused. “In all the papers, you say? Well, Fame at last—although hardly the kind I had expected. What a pity that there can be no photographs with the story. Imagine a picture of me on the front page! A profile, perhaps—or would a full-length shot be more effective? Or both, let us say, with–”
“I know you’d look very handsome, Phoenix,” David interrupted, “but what we should be thinking about is the Scientist. What are we going to do?”
David and the Phoenix Page 4
