David and the Phoenix

by Dr Edward Ormondroyd

  “Well, Phoenix,” said David hopefully, “we can set the snare again if we can find another good sapling; and we still have the other one, so we’re pretty well protected. And why couldn’t we meet every night by the hedge, the way we did last night? The bell was a good idea, but we could get along without it.”

  The Phoenix sighed. “I suppose you are right, my boy. There is no use crying over spilt milk. One must set one’s jaw and—good heavens, my boy! Duck!”

  The Phoenix threw itself to the ground and wildly motioned to David to do the same. He flattened himself out beside the bird and said, “What is it, Phoenix?”

  “Down the mountainside,” whispered the Phoenix. “Look! Do not stick your head over too far.”

  David wormed his way to the edge, peered down, and gasped. Below him, on the grassy slope at the foot of the scarp, was a figure clad in khaki. It was the Scientist.

  “Do you think he saw us?” the Phoenix whispered.

  “I don’t think so,” David whispered back. “He’s looking off to the left. Oh, Phoenix, what if he comes up here? What’ll we do?”

  “Listen,” hissed the Phoenix, “run down there. Talk to him, lead him away, distract his attention, anything. Only be quick!”

  “All right!”

  The Phoenix melted into the thicket, and David jumped to his feet. As he dashed down the trail his brain whirled with questions. What should he do? What could he say? How could he lead the Scientist away? Where would the Phoenix go?

  In his haste he forgot one important thing. His foot tripped over the pile of grass and leaves on the trail. The released sapling sprang upward, the noose tightened with a cruel jerk around his ankle, and he was snatched into the air. As the blood rushed to his head he lost control of himself and began to struggle wildly and shout at the top of his voice.

  The flat dry voice of the Scientist drifted to him as if through a long tunnel. “What’s all this? What are you doing here? Who set this snare?”

  “Get me down,” David choked. “Please!”

  A hand seized him by the scruff of the neck. A knife flashed through the air and cut the rope. David landed on his feet, but his legs gave way and he dropped to his knees. He felt dizzy as the blood rushed away from his head again.

  The Scientist tilted his sun helmet back and said, “Well, well—David,” in a disagreeable tone. His eyes narrowed behind the spectacles. “What is this snare doing here?”

  David struggled to his feet and clutched a bush for support. “Thank you for cutting me down,” he said.

  The cold blue eyes found David’s and held them in a hypnotic stare. “What is this trap doing here? Who set it?”

  “I—I was coming down the trail and—and—I was caught in it,” David stammered.

  “You are avoiding my question, young man,” said the Scientist. “Who—set—this—snare? Answer me!”

  There was a brilliant flash of gold and blue in the sunlight, the whistle of feathers cleaving the air, the sharp thwock! of fisted talons striking. The Scientist pitched forward with a surprised grunt and lay still across the trail—and the Phoenix, executing a flip in the air to check its speed, settled down beside David.

  “View halloo!” it shouted excitedly. “Yoicks and Tallyho! Did you see that stoop, my boy? By Jove, the best-trained falcon could not have done better! Believe me, I have been saving that blow for a long time! By Jove, what a magnificent stoop! I think I shall take up Scientist-hunting as a regular thing!”

  “Thank goodness, Phoenix!” David exclaimed. “Another minute and you would’ve been too late! But I hope you haven’t—hurt him very much.”

  “Nonsense, my boy,” said the Phoenix. “A head so stuffed with scientific fact cannot be injured. He will come to in a short while.” The Phoenix lifted the Scientist’s sun helmet and examined the back of his head. “A large lump is developing, my boy. A most pleasant sight! I fear the sun helmet is now useless—crushed like an eggshell.” And the Phoenix smiled proudly.

  “Well, I hope it isn’t serious,” David said doubtfully. “Anyway, we’ll have to do something.”

  “Precisely, my boy. But I think we should have a drink first.” The Phoenix detached a canteen from the Scientist’s belt and took a deep swig. “Ah, delicious! Our friend is well prepared, my boy.” And indeed, the Scientist had all sorts of things with him: a hand-ax, a sheath knife, a compass, a camera, binoculars, a stop watch, notebooks and pencils, a coil of rope, maps. There was also a packet of sandwiches, which the Phoenix opened and began to eat.

  “Now, listen, Phoenix, we have to do something.”

  “Quite right, my boy,” the Phoenix mumbled, with its mouth full. “Have a sandwich—spoils of war—peanut butter—very nourishing. The fact is that I have just thought of another plan, which cannot fail. Have we any money left?”

  “Yes, four gold pieces. Why?”

  “Splendid. Now, my boy, I shall leave you. When the Scientist wakes up, you will help him down to wherever he lives. Find out where his room is. I shall meet you by the hedge at midnight. Be sure you have the gold pieces with you.”

  “All right. What are we–”

  “Sure you will not have a sandwich?”

  “No, thank you. What are we–”

  “Very well. Farewell, then, my boy. Till midnight.”

  David poured what was left in the canteen over the Scientist’s head and fanned him with a notebook. Presently the man stirred and groaned. Then he sat up and muttered, “What hit me?”

  “Can you stand up yet?” David said.

  Too dazed to ask any more questions, the Scientist got up, groaning, put on his broken spectacles, collected his scattered equipment, and leaned on David. The two of them proceeded slowly down the trail together, frequently sitting down to rest. The Scientist murmured the name of his hotel and pointed out the direction.

  Townspeople stared at them as they passed, but no one stopped them or asked questions, and they reached the hotel without further incident. They entered the lobby, and the Scientist sank into a chair.

  “Let me help you to your room,” said David.

  In a few minutes the Scientist got up again, and they took the elevator to the fourth floor. David closely watched the direction they were going, and when they came into the Scientist’s room, he looked quickly through the window. There was a fire escape just outside. He had the information now: fourth floor, west side, fire escape by window.

  The Scientist eased himself onto the bed with a groan.

  Then he turned to David and said severely: “There’s something strange about all this, and I intend to get to the bottom of it. You’ll be hearing from me, young man!”

  “All right,” said David, closing the door. “And you’ll be hearing from us,” he added in an undertone, “if I know the Phoenix!”

  Flying at night was colder than flying by day, but it was more thrilling, too. They whistled through an immense blackness. Stars glittered overhead, and quicksilver patches of moonlight and shadow flashed across the clouds below. They were going to Ireland, but why, David did not know. The Phoenix was playing its wait-and-see game again.

  In an hour or so they shot out over the edge of the cloud mass, and David could see a rocky coast below, dark and cold in the half-light. The Phoenix began to slant down toward it, and presently they landed in a little meadow. One side of the meadow ran down to a bog filled with reeds, and on the other side was a gloomy wood. Everything was dark and indistinct, but David thought he could tell why the Phoenix had called this the Emerald Isle. The grass beneath their feet was the thickest he had ever felt. He touched a boulder and found it furry with moss. With the wood and the reed-choked bog, the whole place would be rich with various greens in the daylight.

  Just then they saw a little man approaching them from the wood. He was three feet tall, dressed all in green, and had a long white beard. When he reached them he raised his cap politely and said, “Good evenin’ to you.”

  “A fine evening to you,
my good Leprechaun,” said the Phoenix. “Could you kindly tell us–”

  “Will you have a cigar?” the Leprechaun interrupted.

  With a surprised “Thank you very much,” the Phoenix took the cigar, bit off the end, and popped it into its beak. The Leprechaun lighted it, and the Phoenix puffed away.

  “Stick o’ gum, lad?” said the Leprechaun to David, holding out a pack.

  “Why, yes, thank you,” said David. He took the stick of gum from the pack, and was immediately sorry for it. The stick was made of wood and had a small wire spring, like a mouse trap, which snapped down on his finger and made him yelp with pain. At the same instant the Phoenix’s cigar exploded, knocking the startled bird backwards into a bush.

  “Haw haw haw!” shouted the Leprechaun, rolling on the ground and holding his sides. “Haw haw haw!”

  In a trice the Phoenix had pounced on the Leprechaun and pinned him to the ground.

  “Let him up,” said David furiously. “I’ll punch his head for him.”

  “I think, my boy,” said the Phoenix coldly, “that I shall carry the creature up into the clouds and drop him. Or should we take him back with us and hand him over to the Scientist?”

  “Now, don’t take offense, Your Honor,” said the Leprechaun. “I thought you’d look at it as kind o’ comic.”

  “Exceedingly comic,” said the Phoenix severely. “I am quite overcome with mirth and merriment. But perhaps—perhaps—I shall let you off lightly if you tell us where the Banshee lives.”

  “The—the Banshee of Mare’s Nest Wood?”

  “The same. Speak!”

  A new light of respect and fear came into the Leprechaun’s eyes. “She’s a terror, she is. What’ll you be wanting–”

  “None of your business!” roared the Phoenix. “Where is she?”

  The Leprechaun had begun to tremble. “Follow the path yonder through the wood until you reach the cave, Your Honor. You’re not friends o’ hers, are you? You’ll not be telling on me? I’m real sorry for those jokes, Your Honor.”

  The Leprechaun’s fright was so genuine now that the Phoenix relented and let him go. The little creature dashed off like a rabbit into the bog.

  “Let that be a lesson to you, my boy,” said the Phoenix. “Beware the Leprechaun bearing gifts. But I wonder why the thought of the Banshee frightened him so?”

  They followed the path until they came to the mouth of a cave under a heap of rocks. The Phoenix plunged in, and David nervously followed. The cave turned out to be a long passageway which led, after several turns, into a chamber.

  From the ceiling of this rocky vault hung an electric light bulb, which glared feebly through drifts of smoke. All around the walls were wooden boxes, stacked up to make shelves and cupboards. These were filled with an astonishing array of objects: bottles, vials, alembics, retorts, test tubes, decanters, cages, boxes, jars, pots, skulls, books, snake skins, wands, waxen images, pins and needles, locks of hair, crystal balls, playing cards, dice, witch-hazel forks, tails of animals, spices, bottles of ink in several colors, clay pipes, a small brass scale, compasses, measuring cups, a piggy bank which squealed off and on in a peevish way, balls of string and ribbons, a pile of magazines called The Warlock Weekly, a broken ukulele, little heaps of powder, colored stones, candle ends, some potted cacti, and an enormous cash register. In the middle of the chamber a little hideous crone in a Mother Hubbard crouched over a saucepan, stirring it with a wooden spoon. The saucepan was resting in the coals of an open fire, and smoke and steam together spread out in a murky, foul-smelling fog.

  The crone peered at them over the top of her spectacles and cackled, “Come in, come in, dearies. I’ll be with you as soon as ever I finish this brew.”

  The Phoenix, who had been gazing around the chamber in surprise, said, “My dear Banshee, since when have you taken up witchcraft? This is most unexpected.”

  “Ah, ‘tis the Phoenix!” exclaimed the hag, peering at them again. “Well, fancy that now! Och, you may well ask, and I’ll be telling you. ‘Tis a poor life being a Banshee—long hours and not so much as sixpence in it for a full night’s work, and I got that sick of it! So I changed me trade. ‘Sure, you’ll never make a go of it,’ they told me, ‘and at your age,’ they says, ‘and once you’ve got your station in life,’ they says, ‘there’s no changing it.’ ‘It’s in the prime of me life I am,’ says I, ‘and I’ll not be changing me mind for all your cackling,’ says I, ‘and if certain mouths don’t shut up,’ says I, ‘I’ll cast spells that’ll make certain people wish they were dead.’ That set them back on their heels, you may be sure. Well, ‘twas the best decision of me life. The money pours in like sorrows to a widow, and I’ll be retiring within the year to live out my days like a proper queen.”

  Then the Banshee caught sight of David and hobbled over to him, peering into his frightened eyes.

  “Ah, the wee darling,” she crooned, “the plump little mannikin. What a broth he’d make, to be sure.” She pinched his arm, and he started back in terror. “So firm and plump, to make the mouth water. Sell him to me, Phoenix!”

  “Nonsense,” said the Phoenix sharply. “What we desire–”

  At this instant the contents of the saucepan began to hiss and bubble. “Whoops, dearies, the brew is boiling!” shrieked the Banshee, and she hobbled back to the fire to resume her work. She looked in a recipe book, stirred, clapped her hands, sang hair-raising incantations in a quavery voice, and added a pinch of salt and sulfur. She sprinkled spices from a shaker, waved her wand, popped in a dead toad, and fanned up the fire with an ostrich plume.

  “Now for the hard part,” she said, grinning at them toothlessly. She measured out a spoonful of green powder, weighed it in the scales, and flung it into the saucepan. There was a loud explosion. A huge blast of steam flared out and engulfed them. When it had cleared, they saw the Banshee tilting the saucepan over a small bottle. One ruby drop of fluid fell into the bottle. It darted forth rays of light as it fell, and tinkled like a silver coin rolling down flights of marble steps.

  The Banshee corked the bottle and held it up proudly to the light. “Will you look at that, now?” she crooned. “The finest ever I brewed. Ah, the mystic droplet! Some swain will be buying that, now, and putting it in a lassie’s cup o’ tea, and she’ll be pining away for love of him before the day’s out.”

  She put the bottle on the shelf, pasted a label on it, and turned to them with a businesslike air.

  “Now, dearies, what’ll you be wanting? Philtres? Poison?—I’ve a special today, only five shillings a vial. A spell? What about your fortunes?—one shilling if seen in the crystal ball, one and six if read from the palm. A hex?—I’ve the finest in six counties. A ticket to the Walpurgis Night Ball?”

  “We want a Wail,” said the Phoenix. “And we shall accept nothing but the best and loudest you have.”

  “Ah, a Banshee’s Wail, is it?” cried the hag. “You’ve come to the right shop, dearies, to be sure. Now, let me see....” She hobbled to a shelf which contained a row of boxes, ran her finger along them, stopped at one, and took it down. “Here we are—key of C-sharp, two minutes long, only five shillings threepence.”

  “No, no,” said the Phoenix. “A larger one. We have something more than mice to frighten.”

  “A bigger one? Och, here’s a lovely one, now—five minutes long, ascending scale with a sob at the end, guaranteed to scare a statue. Yours for ten and six. I call that a real bargain, now!”

  “Bah!” said the Phoenix impatiently. “Enough of these squeaks! We want a real Wail, my dear Banshee—such a Wail as never before was heard on the face of this earth. And stop this babbling about shillings and pence. We are prepared to pay in gold.” The Phoenix took the four pieces of gold from David and carelessly tossed them into the air.

  The Banshee’s eyes flew wide open, and she twirled herself around like a top. “Och, the sweet music of its tinkling!” she exclaimed. “The lovely sheen of light upon it! There’s a sight for e
yes used to naught but silver! Ah, but dearies, I’ve no Wail worth four pieces of gold. I’ll have to make one up special.” She hobbled rapidly around the chamber until she had found a box as large as a bird cage, and an ear trumpet. She opened the box, shook it to make sure it was empty, and put in two heads of cabbage. (“Such monstrous appetites these Wails do have!” she explained.) She fastened the lid carefully with a catch-lock, and inserted the ear trumpet in a hole in one side of the box. Then she disappeared through a sound-proof door, which they had not seen before on account of the smoke.

  Fifteen minutes later the Banshee came out with the box, plugging up the hole in its side with a bit of wax. She was pale and trembling, and beads of sweat covered her face. She smiled weakly at them, seized an earthen-ware jug, and drained it in one gulp. The color began to return to her face.

  “Wsssht!” she gasped, wiping her brow with the sleeve of her Mother Hubbard. “Ah, dearies, that was the effort of me life! ‘Tis a Wail to make one burst with pride, though I do say it meself. Thirteen minutes long by the clock, with a range of ten octaves! ‘Twould frighten the Old Nick himself!”

  “Splendid!” said the Phoenix. “The fact is, I sometimes suspect that that is precisely with whom we are dealing at home.”

  The light suddenly dawned on David. “Phoenix!” he cried. “I bet we’re going to give the Wail to the Scientist!”

  “Precisely, my boy!” The Phoenix beamed.

  “Oh, golly golly golly!” David sang as he danced around.

  “And I’ll guarantee it, dearies!” the Banshee cackled. “One hundred per cent satisfaction or your money back!”

  “Defeat and confusion to the enemy!” the Phoenix shouted, giving the special squawk which was its battle cry.

  The Banshee received her gold. The Phoenix told David for goodness sake not to drop the box or let the lid pop open, or they would regret it to their dying day. David, hearing the rustle of the Wail as it ravenously attacked the cabbages inside the box, assured the Phoenix that he would be careful. The Banshee said, “Ah, Phoenix, do sell the laddie to me,” but her tone was more teasing than serious, and they all laughed. Good-bys were said all round, and David and the Phoenix left. The last thing they heard as they felt their way up the dark passage was the happy cackling of the Banshee and the clang of the cash register.