They got back to the hotel before dawn and very carefully crept down the fire escape into the Scientist’s room. They put the box on the bedside table, stuck out their tongues at the sleeping Scientist, and crept out again. Then they went home, the Phoenix to the ledge and David to bed, where he fell asleep instantly.
The Wail was wildly successful. The Scientist released it from its box at seven o’clock in the morning. People living in the hotel thought the world had come to its end. The rest of the town wondered if it was a riot, or an earthquake, or both with three steam calliopes thrown in for good measure. David, who lived twelve blocks from the hotel, stirred in his sleep and dreamed he was riding a fire engine. Even the Phoenix claimed later that a kind of moan was borne on the breeze all the way up to the ledge.
The hotel burst into activity like a kicked anthill. People poured down the fire escapes, shot out through the doors, lowered themselves into the street with ropes of knotted blankets. Others barricaded themselves in their rooms by piling furniture against the doors and windows. One guest found his way to the cellar and hid in an ash can for two days. The manager crawled into the office safe and locked the door, without even bothering to remember that he was the only one who knew the combination. The telephone exchange was jammed as calls flooded in to mobilize the Boy Scouts, the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, the National Guard, and the Volunteer Flood Control Association. When the Wail finally died out (which was not until seven-thirty, because it had devoured both cabbages during the night and had grown to more than twice its original size) the police entered the hotel in force, armed to the eyebrows. They found nothing. At the end of a three-hour search the Chief handed in his resignation.
As for the Scientist, he disappeared completely. A farmer living three miles out of town said he saw a man, dressed in a nightshirt and head-bandage, running down the valley road. The farmer guessed the man’s speed to be thirty-five miles an hour. But, he added, there was such a cloud of dust being raised that he could not see very well.
“It might have been fifty miles an hour,” he said.
No one doubted him.
9: In Which David and the Phoenix Call On a Faun, and a Lovely Afternoon Comes to a Strange End
The Phoenix was dead tired. And no wonder—all in one week it had escaped from Gryffons, raced with a Witch, made round-trip flights to the Pacific Isles and Ireland, been caught in a snare, got burned by a short circuit, and been knocked down by an exploding cigar. Even a bird as strong as the Phoenix cannot do all these things without needing a rest. So the traveling part of David’s education was stopped for a while to let the Phoenix recover.
The days went by pleasantly on the ledge. Summer was at its height. The sun fell on them with just the right amount of warmth as they lolled on the grass. The air was filled with a lazy murmuring. “Listen,” the murmuring seemed to say, “don’t talk, don’t think—close your eyes and listen.” Below them, the whole valley danced and wavered in the heat waves, so that it seemed to be under water.
There were long, lazy conversations that began nowhere and ended nowhere—the wonderful kind in which you say whatever comes to your head without fear of being misunderstood, because what you say has little importance anyway. The Phoenix told of the times and adventures it had had. Of the forgotten corners of the world where life went on as it had from the beginning, and of friends who lived there. Of Trolls who mined metal from the earth and made from it wondrous machines which whirred and clattered and clanked and did absolutely nothing. (“The best kind of machine after all, my boy, since they injure no one, and there is nothing to worry about when they break down.”) Of Unicorns (“Excellent chaps, but so frightfully melancholy”) which shone white in the sun and tossed their ivory horns like rapiers. Of a Dragon who, having no treasure to guard, got together a pathetic heap of colored pebbles in its cave. (“And really, he came to believe in time that they were absolutely priceless, and went about with a worried frown of responsibility on his brow!”) David, in turn, told the Phoenix about the games he used to play when he lived in the flat country, and all about school, and Mother and Dad and Aunt Amy and Beckie.
He could not help laughing now and then over the Scientist’s defeat. But whenever this came up, the Phoenix would shake its head with a kind of sad wisdom.
“My boy, there are certain things, such as head colds and forgetting where you have left your keys, which are inevitable—and I am afraid that the Scientist is, too.”
“Oh, Phoenix, you don’t think he’ll come back, do you?”
“Yes, my boy, I do. I can see the whole train of events: He will recover from his fright. He will be curious about the Wail, and will return to investigate it. Once here, he will remember us, and we shall have to take him into account once more.”
“Oh. Do you think it’ll happen soon?”
“Oh, no, my boy, nothing to worry about for the time being. But we must remember that it will happen some day.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. I think he’s hateful!”
“I cannot disagree with you there, my boy. Of course, I have no doubt that, in general, the advancement of science is all to the good. Knowledge is power. But on days like this I sometimes wonder.... Does it not seem to you that the highest aim in life at the moment is to enjoy the sunlight and allow others to do the same?”
“You’re right, Phoenix—but then, you always are. I was just thinking the same thing. It’s funny ... I mean ... well, you know. Why can’t people leave other people alone—and—and—well, just enjoy themselves and lie in the sun and listen to the wind?”
“That is the way of the world, my boy. Getting and spending, and all that sort of thing. But come! Why should we worry over the follies of the rest of the world? A day like this was made for living, not thinking. Begone, dull care!”
And they would forget the Scientist and watch a pair of butterflies chase each other instead.
But one day the Phoenix suddenly stood up with a startled expression on its face. “My dear chap!” it exclaimed. “I have just remembered! Tomorrow....”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Why, my boy, tomorrow another century rounds its mark. To be brief, tomorrow is my birthday. My five hundredth birthday.”
“Well, congratulations, Phoenix!”
“Thank you, my boy. Five hundred.... Destiny.... Have I mentioned before, my boy, that I have a magnificent destiny?”
“No. What is it, Phoenix?”
“I—well, it is strange, my boy, but I do not know ... but that it is magnificent no one can doubt.”
“Do I have one too?”
“Of course, my boy. We all do.”
David was glad of that. He did not know exactly what a destiny was, however, and he tried to think of how one would look. But the only picture which came to his mind was that of a small, mousy creature (his destiny) looking up in admiration to a splendid thing of flame and gold, dazzling to the eyes—the Phoenix’s mysterious destiny.
He said, “We’ll have to do something special tomorrow to celebrate, Phoenix.”
The Phoenix looked thoughtful. “I think we had better do whatever we are going to do today,” it said.
“Well, we can do something today and tomorrow, then,” said David. “After all, a birthday only comes once a year, and it seems a shame to spend only one day on it. Especially when it’s a five hundredth birthday.”
“Tomorrow ...” said the Phoenix doubtfully. “I have a strange feeling, my boy—for once, I find myself unable to explain—most odd, most odd ... five hundredth birthday....”
“Ah, well,” it went on more cheerfully, “I shall undoubtedly remember later. The pressing question is, what shall we do now?”
David got up, thought for a while, and suddenly flung his arms wide. “Oh, Phoenix,” he cried, “it’s such a beautiful day, I wish it could go on forever! Couldn’t we go somewhere—somewhere where we—oh, I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Anywhere you say, Phoenix.”
&nbs
p; The Phoenix looked at him for a long time. “I think I understand, my boy. Yes.... How about one of the forgotten places I told you about? Should you like to meet a Faun?”
It was a green valley, completely enclosed by the barren mountains which towered above it. At one end a waterfall hung on the face of a cliff, a misty thread pouring into a rainbow-arched pool. A brook serpentined through fields and groves of trees. There were flocks of sheep and goats in the fields. Here and there were strange ruins of marble and red granite—columns, peristyles, benches carved with lions’ heads, and pedestals.
They landed in a little glade, and David got down in silent wonderment. The very stillness of the air was enchanted. The grass, dappled with sun and shadow, wore a mantle of flowers. Clouds of butterflies sprang up at their approach and swirled about them. To their right stood two broken columns, half-hidden beneath a wild tangle of vine and clusters of purple grapes. Beyond was the forest, dark and cool and silent, with shafts of sunlight in it like golden spears pinning the forest floor to earth. There was no breeze. And as David stood there, scarcely daring to breathe, they heard the sound of shepherd pipes coming from the edge of the wood. It was a minor tune, but somehow lilting too, with the rippling of water in it, and the laughter of birds flying high, and the whisper of reeds as they bend together by the edge of streams, and the gaiety of crickets by night, and the pouring of summer rain.
The piping died away, and the Phoenix beckoned to the spellbound David. Together they walked across the glade, leaving behind them a wake of swirling butterflies. An immense oak stood at the edge of the forest. At its foot, on a bed of moss, sat the Faun.
He was the same size as David. From the waist down he was covered with shaggy hair like a goat’s, and instead of feet he had cloven hooves. The hair on his head was black and curly, and tumbled around small pointed ears and a pair of short horns. His eyes were slanted slightly upward, and he had a pointed chin and a snub nose.
The Faun waved his pipes saucily at the Phoenix and gave a wry smile. “Hullo, Phoenix! Back again to honor us with your wit and wisdom? What gems of advice have you got for us now?”
“My dear Faun,” said the Phoenix stiffly, “I have brought my friend David, who is acquiring an education. We–”
The Faun smiled at David. “Want to race?” he said.
“Sure,” said David. “Where to?”
“One moment,” harrumphed the Phoenix. “What we–”
“Down to that pedestal and back,” said the Faun.
“All right. Wait till I tie my shoe.”
The Phoenix harrumphed again. “This is all very well in its place, but we should–”
“Ready?” said the Faun. “One, two, three, go!”
They dashed for the stone marker. It was an even race until they reached the pedestal, but there David tried to turn without slowing down, slipped on the grass, and went sprawling on his hands and knees. The Faun knew better. He sprang at the pedestal with both hooves, bounced from it like a spring, and began to race back to the oak. But then he too fell, tripping over a vine, and David shot past him and touched the oak one jump ahead of him, shouting “First!”
They sat down on the moss, panting. The Faun said, “You can really run! I’m sorry you fell.”
“Well, you fell too, so that makes us even,” said David. They looked at each other and for some reason burst out laughing. They rolled around on the moss and laughed until tears came, while the Phoenix fidgeted in reproachful silence.
When they had calmed down a little, the Faun said, “Can you dance?”
“No,” said David. “I wish I could, though.”
“The educational value of dancing is practically nil,” the Phoenix began severely. “I advise–”
“Sure you can dance,” said the Faun. “Listen.” He brought the pipes to his lips and began to play.
And much to his surprise and delight, David found himself dancing as though he had never done anything else in his life. The wonderful thing was that he did not have to think about what he was doing: the music was doing it all for him. He saw that even the Phoenix was shuffling around in time to the piping, and looking very embarrassed about it, too.
“There,” said the Faun when they had finished, “you can dance, and very well. Even old Phoenix can dance.” Suddenly he jumped up and cried, “Let’s go—come on!” and started to run.
David followed, not knowing where they were going and not caring. The Phoenix came after them, half running and half flying to keep up. They raced across the glade, through a stand of trees, and out into the meadow beyond. There they came to a bank of daisies, and threw themselves into the middle of it and began to pelt each other with blossoms. The Phoenix, finally caught up in the spirit of it, collected a huge bunch while they were wrestling, flew suddenly over them, and drowned them beneath a deluge of flowers. Near by was the stream. They splashed in the shallows, skipped pebbles over the surface, and dug a harbor with two dikes in the sandy part of the shore. The Faun showed David how to build little boats of reeds, and the Phoenix made them sail by blowing up a wind with its wings.
They had a tree-climbing contest, which David won because his feet were better than hooves for standing on branches. But the Faun won the jumping contest because of the tremendous spring in his legs. They came out even in the handstand, somersault, and skin-the-cat contest. And the Phoenix won when they played skip-rope with a piece of vine, because it could hover in the air with its wings while the vine swished over and under.
They had fun with the sheep and goats, too. The Faun made the animals dance and caper to a tune from his pipes, and showed David how to ride on the rams. You crept up very quietly from behind—jumped suddenly on their backs—got a quick grip around their necks—and away in a rush! It was almost as good as flying, except that you got jolted off sooner or later. Then watch out!—it took some quick dodging to escape the horns of the angry rams. They left the goats alone, because of their sharper horns and the wicked look in their eyes.
“I know where some pictures are,” said the Faun. “Come on!” And he led them to a kind of glade ringed with shattered columns. The ground there was covered with moss and drifts of leaves. They each got a stick to clear away the debris, and uncovered a beautiful mosaic pavement. It was made of bits of colored stone and tile, which were arranged to make pictures. There were scenes of youths treading out wine, minstrels with lyres, gods with curly hair, and a beast which was half man and half horse. There were maidens dancing to flute and drums, hunters battling with boars and lions, warriors clashing with sword and shield and spear. There were series of pictures telling stories of wonders and adventures in far-distant lands, voyages, wars, conquests. The Faun proudly pointed out a picture of other Fauns dancing with Nymphs. The Phoenix gazed very thoughtfully at some scenes of a bird building and sitting in a nest of flames. But the last pictures of this story had been broken up by roots, so they could not see how it ended.
When they came to the end of the valley, where the rainbow arched over the pool, David told them of the pot of gold which is supposed to be at the foot of rainbows. They looked for it, but without success, because the rainbow disappeared whenever they got too close to it. So David and the Faun contented themselves with jumping into the pool and ducking each other and making bubbly noises, while the Phoenix, who could not swim, stood on the shore and beamed at them. They picked ferns from under the waterfall and made wreaths and garlands, which they threw at the Phoenix’s head like quoits. The Faun showed them a certain place to shout from if you wanted to hear an echo. The Phoenix shouted, “A stitch in time saves nine!” and the echo dolorously answered, “A switch is fine for crime.”
Wet and tired from splashing in the pool, they stretched out in the sun to dry. A grapevine grew near them, and they gorged themselves on the fruit, smearing their faces and hands with purple. And David closed his eyes and thought, “Now I’m having a dream, and so is the Phoenix. We’re all dreaming the same thing and living in the dr
eam, and I wish—oh, I wish none of us will ever wake up!”
But he had just opened his eyes again when the Faun leaped to his feet and cried “Listen!” and flicked his pointed ears forward like a cat.
David stood up and said in a puzzled voice, “I don’t hear anything.” He noticed that the Phoenix had also got up, and was listening uncomfortably to whatever it was.
“Listen! Oh, listen!” cried the Faun. There was a joyous light in his eyes as he leaned forward with his lips slightly parted, straining toward the mysterious silence. Suddenly he shouted, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” and dashed off into the wood.
“Good heavens,” muttered the Phoenix. “I had forgotten about—this. Let us go home, my boy.”
A strange, uncontrollable trembling had seized David’s legs. He still could hear nothing, but some feeling, some hint of an unknown, tremendous event hung quivering in the air about them and sent little electric thrills racing up and down his whole body.
“Oh, Phoenix, what is it, what is it?” he whispered.
“I think we had best be going, my boy,” said the Phoenix anxiously. “Come along.”
“Phoenix–” But he heard it now. It came whispering toward them, the sound of pipes caroling—pipes such as the Faun had played, but greater, as an organ is greater than a flute. The wild, sweet sound rose and fell, swelled like a full choir, diminished into one soprano voice that pierced David through and through, caressing and tugging, calling, “Come ... come ... run ... run....”
“Phoenix!” David cried. “Oh, Phoenix, listen, listen!”
“Run ... run ...” the pipes whispered.
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