"Well?"

"There you are, my boy!" said the Phoenix triumphantly. "We shall sleep during the day and continue your education at night!"

"Oh," said David. He thought about this a while, then asked, "But suppose the Scientist comes up on the ledge during the day and catches you asleep?"

"Aha! That is where the rope and hatchet come in. Never fear, my boy—I thought of that also. We are going to construct a snare at each end of the ledge."

"How?"

"Hand me that twig, my boy." The Phoenix took the twig, found a bare spot of earth, and sketched a picture. "First we find a sapling and clear the branches from it with the hatchet—like this. Next we get a stake, cut a notch in it, and drive it into the ground—so. The sapling is bent down to it and fitted into the notch, which holds it down. You see, my boy? Now we make a noose—so—from a piece of rope, tie it to the end of the sapling, and spread the loop out on the path—this way. The whole snare is hidden under grass and leaves." The Phoenix beamed and flung out its wings in a dramatic gesture. "Just picture it, my dear chap! The Scientist, smiling evilly as he skulks along the path! The unwary footstep! The sapling, jarred out of the notch, springing upward! The tightened noose! And our archenemy dangling by the foot in mid-air, completely at our mercy! Magnificent!"

"Golly, Phoenix," said David, "that's pretty clever."

"Clever, my boy? Better to say 'a stroke of genius.' Only I, Phoenix, could have thought of it. And consider the poetic justice of it! This is exactly the sort of trap that the Scientist once set for me! Well, shall we begin?"



The Phoenix had made the snares sound delightfully simple, but they soon discovered that the job was harder than it sounded. First they had to find the right kind of sapling, springy and strong. The sapling had to be in the right place—one by the goat trail, the other at the far end of the ledge. When they had been chosen, David had to shinny up them to lop off their branches. That was a very awkward business; the saplings swayed and trembled under his weight, and he could only use one hand for the hatchet. Then he had to make two stakes from stout, hard wood, cut a notch at one end, and drive them into the ground with the flat of the hatchet. But the hardest part was trying to bend the sapling down to the stake and fitting it into the notch. It took the weight of both of them to bring the sapling to the ground. If they got the slightest bit off balance, it would spring up again. Once David fell off; the sapling went swish! back into the air, flinging the astonished Phoenix thirty feet up the mountainside.

It was not until afternoon, when the sun had turned ruddy and shadows were beginning to stretch dark fingers across the land, that they finished the job. But at last the saplings were set in the notches, the nooses were formed and fastened on. Grass and leaves were strewn over the snares; chips, hewn branches, and other evidences of their work were removed. They sat down and looked proudly at each other.

"My boy," said the Phoenix, "I have had a wide, and sometimes painful, experience with traps; so you may believe me when I say that these are among the best I have seen. We have done well."

"They're sure strong enough," David agreed, flexing his fingers to take the stiffness out of them. "But what are we going to do if the Scientist does get caught in one?"

"We shall burn that bridge when we reach it, my boy. Now, do you have the pliers, wire-cutters, and screw driver below?"

"Yes, they're down in the cellar. What are we going to do with them, Phoenix?"

"Patience, patience! You will be told when the time comes. I shall meet you tonight after dark, as soon as it is safe for me to come down. I trust you will have everything ready?"

"Are you coming down?"

"Precisely, my boy. A risk, I admit, but a necessary one. There is a hedge at the back of your house, is there not? Splendid. You may await me there."

* * * * *

David, sitting in the shadow of the hedge, jumped when he heard the Phoenix's quiet "Good evening, my boy."

"Phoenix," he whispered, "how did you do it? Golly, I didn't see you at all, and it isn't even dark yet."

"I have been hunted long enough, my boy, to have learned a few tricks. It is merely a matter of gliding close to the ground, selecting the best shadows, and keeping a sharp lookout. Well, let us get on with the Plan. Have you the tools here?"

"Yes, here they are."

"Splendid! Now, my boy, since we must continue your education during the night, it is necessary that we have some way of getting in touch with each other. If you climb the mountainside in the dark, you may unwittingly fall into our own snare. It is far easier for me to come down than it is for you to go up, and under cover of darkness I can do it quite safely. The question now is, how will you know when I have arrived? That, my boy, is the nub, or crux, of the situation. A difficult problem, you will admit. But I have worked out the solution."

The Phoenix lowered its voice impressively.

"My boy, we are going to install this bell in your room, and the pushbutton on the base of that telephone pole. When I arrive here at night, I shall press the button to let you know that I am ready to go. A magnificent idea, isn't it?"

It did not seem very practical to David. "Well, Phoenix, that's a good idea," he said carefully. "But how are we going to hide the wires? And what about the noise of the bell?"

"Nothing to it, my boy! The wires? There are wires between your house and the telephone pole already—one more would not be noticed. The noise? You have a pillow on your bed, under which the bell can be muffled."

"Yes, that's true." It still sounded impractical.

"Just imagine it!" the Phoenix continued enthusiastically. "Perhaps later we can install another bell at this end. Then we could learn Morse code and send messages to each other. Exactly like a private telephone line!"

Put in this way, the idea had a certain appeal, and David found himself warming to it. But there was another thing to consider.

"How about electricity, Phoenix?"

"Look above you, my boy! The telephone pole is simply loaded down with power lines waiting to be tapped."

The Phoenix was evidently set on carrying out the Plan, and David did not want to wear out the bird's patience with more objections. And—well, why not? There should be no harm in trying it out, anyway.

They gathered up the tools and walked along the hedge to the telephone pole, which was in one corner of the yard. The Phoenix began to uncoil the wire, while David gazed up doubtfully at the shadowy maze of lines and insulators on the cross-arms.

"Electricity," said the Phoenix thoughtfully, "is a complicated and profound subject. There are amperes, and there are volts, and there are kilowatt hours. I might also mention positive and negative and—ah—all that sort of thing. Most profound. Perhaps I had better investigate up there. Screw driver, please."

The Phoenix took the screw driver in one claw and flew up to the top of the pole. David could hear the creak of the lines under the Phoenix's weight and the rattling of the screw driver against the porcelain insulators. For some minutes the Phoenix investigated, clicking and scraping about, and muttering "Quite so" and "There we are." Then it fluttered down again and rubbed its wings together.

"The whole situation up there is a lot simpler than I thought it would be, my boy. The power lines merely come up to the pole on one side, pass through the insulators, and go away from the pole on the other side. Child's play! The covering on the lines is rather tough, however. We shall have to use the wire-cutters."

The Phoenix returned to the top of the pole with the cutters, and worked on the wires for five more minutes. Bits of debris began to shower down on the hedge. One of the wires vibrated on a low note like a slack guitar string.

"We must not forget the difference between alternating and direct current, my boy," said the Phoenix as it flew down again. "An important problem, that. Where is our wire? Ah, there we are. The pliers, please."

"Do you need any help up there?" David asked.

"No, everything is coming along beautifully, thank you. I shall have everything finished in a flash."

Trailing one end of the wire in its beak, the Phoenix flew up into the darkness once more. The tinkering sounds began again, and a spurt of falling debris rattled in the leaves of the hedge.

Suddenly it happened. There was a terrific burst of blue light, a sharp squawk from the Phoenix, and a shower of sparks. Another blue flash blazed up. The lights in the house, and down the whole street, flickered and went out. In the blackness which followed, each stage of the Phoenix's descent could be heard as clearly as cannon shots: the twanging and snapping as it tumbled through the wires, a drawn-out squawk and the flop of wings in the air below, the crash into the hedge, the jarring thud against the ground. Broken wires began to sputter ominously and fire out sparks. A smell of singed feathers and burning rubber filled the air.



By the light of the sparks David saw the Phoenix staggering to its feet. He jumped to the bird's side, but the Phoenix waved him away with its wing.

"Quick, my boy," it gasped. "We must make a strategic retreat! Meet me on the ledge in the morning. Ouch!" The Phoenix beat at the smoldering sparks in its tail and flew off, leaving a trail of acrid smoke hanging in the air.

David had the presence of mind to gather up all the tools, the wire, bell, and pushbutton, and one of the Phoenix's feathers, which had been torn out during the fall. He slipped through a cellar window, hid the equipment under a stack of old boxes, and ran noisily up the stairs into the kitchen.

"Hey!" he shouted. "The lights are out!"

"Is that you, dear?" came Mother's anxious voice from the dining room.

"The telephone's dead!" Dad shouted from the hall.

Aunt Amy came bumping down the stairs with a candle. "It's that burglar!" she cried. "Turning out all the lights so he can murder us in our beds!"

"Look!" David shouted, "the line's broken in our back yard!"

They could hear the wailing of sirens now. Fire trucks, repair trucks, and police cars pulled up in front of the house. Everyone in the block turned out to see what had happened. It took the repair men an hour to untangle the wires and fix them. And all the time policemen were going through the crowd, asking questions and writing things down in their notebooks. They were looking rather haggard, David thought.



8: In Which David and the Phoenix Visit a Banshee, and a Surprise Is Planted in the Enemy's Camp



Next day Mother asked David to help her straighten out the garden, which had been trampled by the repair men; so he could not go to see the Phoenix until after lunch. But when that was finished, he rushed up the mountainside as fast as he could, wondering all the way what he and the Phoenix were going to do now.

The ledge was empty when he got there. He shouted, "Phoenix!" and listened.

"Hel-l-lp!" came a faint answering cry from the other end of the ledge.

David jumped through the thicket. A pitiful sight met his eyes. There was the Phoenix, dangling by one foot from the snare, its wings feebly struggling and its free foot clawing the air. The feathers of its wings and tail were singed. Great beads of sweat rolled from its forehead into a puddle on the ground below. The snared foot was blue and swollen.

"Get me down," gasped the Phoenix weakly.

David took a running leap at the sapling, which broke under the sudden increase of weight, and the two of them crashed to the ground. He unfastened the noose and dragged the Phoenix to the shadiest, softest spot on the ledge.

"Hoist with my own petard," said the Phoenix bitterly. "Rub my foot, will you? Oh dear oh dear oh dear! Hurts."

"What happened?" David asked as he rubbed the swollen foot. "How long have you been caught?"

"Missed my way in the dark," said the Phoenix, wiping its brow. "Thought I was on the other side of the ledge, and landed right on that fool trap. Hung there all night and all morning. Thought you would never come, my boy. Oh dear, oh dear, what a horrible experience! My tail was still on fire when I landed, too. I fully expected to be burned to a crisp." A large tear rolled down the Phoenix's beak.

David murmured soothing words and continued to chafe the Phoenix's foot. "Does it feel any better now?"

"The feeling is coming back, my boy," said the Phoenix, gritting its beak. "Ouch! All pins and needles." It flexed its toes gingerly. "Rub a bit more, please. Gently."

The swelling began to go down. With a handful of damp grass David soothed the marks left by the noose.

"That stupid Electric Company!" the Phoenix suddenly burst out. "Putting everyone in danger with a short-circuited power line! Let this be a lesson to you, my boy. Anything worth doing is worth doing well. They will hear from us, believe me! We shall write them a stiff complaint!"

"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 eyes 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.

* * * * *

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."

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 dream, 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.

"Let us go home, my boy," said the Phoenix warningly.

"Come ... come ..." cried the pipes.

They could be resisted no longer. In a transport of joy, David shouted "I'm coming!" and raced away toward the sound. There was nothing in his mind now, nothing in the whole world, but a desire to be near those pipes. He must run like the winds, leap and shout, roll in the grass, throw himself down flowered slopes, follow that magic music wherever it should lead. He fled blindly through the wood, heedless of the branches which whipped his face and the thorns which tore at his legs. The pipes were calling more loudly now: "Run ... run ... faster ... faster...." Then the Phoenix plunged to earth in front of him, threw out both wings, and shouted "Stop!"

"Let me go, Phoenix!" David cried. "Let me by! I want to run, I must run!"

He made a desperate effort to push past the outstretched wings. But the Phoenix flung him to the ground, picked him up before he could kick once, and threw him on its back. Then they were flying at full speed, dodging through gaps in the branches and between close-set trunks, with leaves and twigs slashing them from every side. They burst out of the wood and sped over a meadow. David saw below them a huge Faun-like figure pacing majestically across the sward. A flaming wreath encircled its brow, garlands of flowers hung from its arms and shoulders, and those enchanted pipes were lifted to its lips. Around the cloven hooves, and trailing out behind, danced a multitude of creatures—lambs and kids gamboling, goats and rams tossing their horns, foxes, furry waves of squirrels, rabbits kicking up their heels, Fauns and Nymphs rollicking, frogs and crickets and serpents. Above them flew birds and butterflies and beetles and bats in swirling clouds. Full-voiced, the glorious pipes sang. "Come, come, run, run! Follow, leap and dance, adore and obey! Run, oh, run, heed me before all passes! Follow, before it is too late, too late, too late...."



And David, in a delirium of desire, shouted "I'm coming!" and jumped from the Phoenix's back.

For an instant, as he fell through the air, he thought he would succeed in joining the dancing throng. But the Phoenix, plunging after him falconwise with folded wings, seized his collar in its talons, and snatched him up from the very arms of the Faun, who had recognized him and called his name as he fell.

Up toward the cloudless sky they soared. David cried, pleaded, pommeled the Phoenix with his fists. The Phoenix ignored his struggling and continued to climb with tremendous wing strokes. Up and up and up.... The piping grew fainter in the distance, its magic weakened. The enchanted dancers diminished into specks, the valley fell away until it was only a green splash nestled among the jagged peaks. And David burst into tears ... and then wondered why he was crying ... and tried to remember, and could not. The trembling left his body, and he dangled limply. His eyes closed.



10: In Which a Five Hundredth Birthday Is Celebrated, and the Phoenix Bows to Tradition



"That's funny," said David, rubbing his eyes and looking around in a puzzled way. "Where are we, Phoenix?"

"'Home is the sailor, home from the hill,'" the Phoenix said, "'And the hunter home from the sea.' Or is it the other way around? At any rate, we are home, my boy."

And so they were.

"Weren't we playing with a Faun just now?"

"Quite so."

"But there was something else," David said. "Something ... Didn't somebody say, 'Follow, before it is too late,' or something like that? Did we follow?—I can't remember."

"No, my boy. By the time one hears that, it is already too late."

"Oh." Too late for what? he wondered. Oh, well ... He sighed, and fell to daydreaming.

A cough from the Phoenix brought him back.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I have never seen you so thoughtful, my boy. However, I believe I know what you are thinking about. It is a difficult problem, is it not?"

"Yes, I was just—"

"—thinking what you could get me for a birthday present," interrupted the Phoenix. "Am I not correct?"

David, who had not even given this a thought until now, flushed.

"Aha!" said the Phoenix triumphantly. "Just as I thought! Believe me, my dear fellow, when you have been around as long as I have, you can read the minds of your friends as easily as a book. Now, the problem of what to give is a hard one at any time, but the problem of what to give for a five hundredth birthday is even harder. A monogrammed ash tray? I do not receive cigars often enough to make that practical. A hand-knitted sweater? It would not fit (they never do). A gold-plated watch chain? I have no watch. No, the best idea would be to get me something which I can use."

"Certainly, Phoenix," David stammered. "What do you want, then?"

"Ah! We have reached the kernel of the problem. And the answer, my boy, is this: cinnamon."

"Cinnamon?"

"Precisely. Also a box of matches—the kind that strike anywhere, you know."

"Well—all right. It doesn't sound like much of a present, but if that's what you really want.... What are you going to do with them, Phoenix? I mean, if you don't mind my asking."

"The plain fact is, my boy," said the Phoenix doubtfully, "the plain fact is—well, I do not know. Odd! But something tells me I shall need them. Well, it will come to me in the morning, no doubt. And then, of course, I shall be very glad to have them on hand."

"All right, cinnamon and matches, then. And I'll get some—no, I won't tell you that. It'll be a surprise."

"A surprise? Splendid, my boy! You could not, I suppose, drop me a small hint? No? But of course not—one hint and my powerful Intellect could guess everything—and then the surprise would be spoiled. Well, until tomorrow, then!"

* * * * *



That evening David shut himself in his room and robbed his bank. It was a squat, cast-iron box, with "A Penny Saved Is A Penny Earned" in raised letters on one side. The only way to open it was to smash it with a crowbar, but it could be emptied. It had to be tilted just so, with a knife blade in the slot to catch the coins and guide them out. This is what David did, with a bread knife borrowed from the kitchen. It was a slow, uncertain job, and one coin (he guessed it was a dime by the way it rattled) never did come out. But the rest, which included his change from Uncle Charles's present, would be enough.

Early next morning he went to the store and bought three large boxes of stick cinnamon, two cans of powdered cinnamon, and a huge box of matches. For the surprise he got a whole quart of strawberry ice cream, with a piece of dry ice to keep it from melting. He wanted to buy a cake, too, and candles, but there was not enough money left. Then he remembered that a new batch of cookies had been baked at home yesterday, which would have to do instead. He wrapped the cinnamon and matches up in a neat package with white paper, tied it in a blue ribbon, and wrote on it "To Feenix, Happy 500 Birthday, from David." Then he took all the cookies from the jar, borrowed two plates and spoons, put everything into a large paper bag, and set out for the Phoenix's ledge.

He was surprised to find the Phoenix working busily in the middle of a wide place on the ledge. Apparently the bird had been at it all night, for a huge pile of sticks and brush had been heaped up on the ground and shaped roughly like a nest. Right now the Phoenix was struggling with a small log, trying to get it on the pile.

"Hello, Phoenix! Happy birthday!"

"Ah, there, my boy! Thank you very much. Could you kindly give me a hand with this log?"

They heaved and grunted the piece of wood to the top of the pile, and David said, "What's this for, Phoenix?"

"This, my boy, is a pyre. A bit untidy around the edges, but nonetheless a pyre."

"Oh," said David. "What's that?"

"Well—a pyre, you know—a sort of fire, as it were."

"Oh, fire. I thought you said—oh, yes. Fire. Isn't it awfully warm for a fire?"

"The weather is unusually tropical," said the Phoenix, cocking one eye toward the sun. "This fire, however, is necessary—but I shall explain later. Meanwhile, if you will just aid me with this branch—" And for the next fifteen minutes they worked over the heap, adding to it and shaping it up. David kept his thoughts to himself. He could see that the Phoenix knew what it was doing, so everything must be all right.

"By the way, my boy," said the Phoenix casually, when they had finished, "my prediction was correct. I knew it would be. The inevitable has occurred."

"What are you talking about, Phoenix?"

"The Scientist, my boy. He is in our midst once more."

David clutched a branch in the heap and said "Oh, Phoenix!" in a frightened voice.

"Now, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. He is not nearby at present. I sent him back."

"Sent him back? How?"

"Nothing to it, my boy," said the Phoenix smugly. "He was up at the crack of dawn, toiling with typical stupidity in full sight on the slope below. He was making a blind of green branches to hide in while he spies on me. (Really, the childishness of his efforts! To think for a minute he could fool me with such tricks!) Well, I waited until he had gone down the slope to cut more greenery, and when his back was turned, I slipped down to the blind and took his binoculars."

"But Phoenix, what did you want with his binoculars?"

"I did not want his binoculars, my boy, but he did. His language when he discovered the loss was simply frightful—I could hear it all the way up here. Of course, he had to return to town for another pair."

"But he'll be back!"

"Precisely, my boy. But he will have something to keep him busy when he returns. I took the liberty of destroying his blind. That will hold him."

"But it won't hold him long, Phoenix! We've got to think of something else. Now your whole birthday is spoiled!"

"On the contrary, my boy, it will hold him long enough. Now please do not ask me why; you must take my word for it, and I shall explain later. And my birthday is not spoiled. I am looking forward with a great deal of pleasure to the surprise which you promised me. Come, let us enjoy it, whatever it is, and forget the Scientist."

"Well ... are you sure about the Scientist?"

"Absolutely."

The Phoenix was so positive that David began to feel better. He picked up the paper bag and said: "Well, it isn't much of a surprise, really—just a birthday party. And your present. But I think the present should come after the party, don't you?"

"Quite so, my boy. But I shall leave the management of the whole affair in your capable hands."

"All right," said David. "Now, you'll have to turn around, Phoenix, and not look while I'm getting it ready."

The Phoenix obediently turned around, clasping its wings behind its back, and tried hard not to peek. David set the party things out on the grass: ice cream in the middle, the cookies in a ring around it, plates on either side, and spoons beside the plates. He set the Phoenix's present off to one side, where it could be reached when they had finished.

"All right, Phoenix, you can turn around now."

The Phoenix took a long look at everything, and said huskily: "My dear chap, this is quite the nicest moment of my life. How can I possibly thank you?"

They sat down in their places. David passed the cookies and served the ice cream, and said that as far as he was concerned, this was the best birthday party he had ever been to. And the Phoenix said, "Quite so, my boy, but might I make so bold as to ask why?" And David answered, "Well, the reason is that usually during birthday parties you have to play stupid games, like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and button-button-who-has-the-button, in spite of the fact that eating good things is the real reason for having a party, as everybody knows." And the Phoenix said, "Precisely, my boy, but people have somehow lost the main idea of the thing. When you come right down to it, ice cream is the basis of any sensible party, and everything else is a waste of time." And David said, "Yes, Phoenix, but don't forget cake and cookies, and candy and nuts and things. They're not as good as ice cream, but they're not a complete waste of time, either." And the Phoenix said, "Of course not, my dear fellow, they are important too. And speaking of ice cream, have you noticed that, while chocolate is very good, and vanilla enjoys great popularity, still there is nothing like strawberry?" And David said, "Yes, you're right"—rather sadly, because the Phoenix was eating most of it.

At last the ice cream carton was empty and all the cookies were gone. They both sighed regretfully and brushed away the crumbs. And the Phoenix looked hopefully at the present David had brought.

"Happy birthday, Phoenix," David said, and he handed the gift over with a little bow.

"Thank you, my boy, thank you." The Phoenix opened the package eagerly and gave a pleased cry. "Just what I wanted, my dear chap!"

"I'm glad you like it," David said. "Do you know yet what it's for? Can you really use it for something?"

The Phoenix suddenly stopped smiling and looked at David with a strange expression on its face—an expression David had never seen there before. A vague dread swept through him, and he faltered, "Phoenix ... you do know what it's for? What is it? Tell me."

"Well, my boy—well, the fact is—yes, I do know. It came to me this morning while I was constructing the—ah—nest, here. I am afraid it will be a bit hard to explain. The cinnamon—ah—the cinnamon—well, cinnamon branches are what I should really have...."

"But Phoenix, what's it for?"

"Behold, my boy." The Phoenix opened the boxes, and spread the cinnamon sticks on the nest. Then it took the cans and sprinkled the cinnamon powder over the top and sides of the heap, until the whole nest was a brick-dust red.

"There we are, my boy," said the Phoenix sadly. "The traditional cinnamon pyre of the Phoenix, celebrated in song and story."

And with the third mention of the word "pyre," David's legs went weak and something seemed to catch in his throat. He remembered now where he had heard that word before. It was in his book of explorers, and it meant—it meant—

"Phoenix," he choked, "wh-wh-who is the pyre for?"

"For myself," said the Phoenix.

"Phoenix!"

"Now, I implore you—please—oh, dear, I knew it would be difficult to explain. Look at me, my boy."

David did as he was told, although his eyes were filled with tears and he could not see through the blur.

"Now," said the Phoenix gently, "the fact is that I have, besides my unusually acute Intellect, an Instinct. This Instinct told me that it was my birthday today. It also told me to build this nest of cinnamon. Now it tells me that I must make this nest my pyre, because that is what the Phoenix does at the end of five hundred years. Now, please, my boy!—I admit it does not appear to be a very joyful way of celebrating, but it must be done. This is the traditional end of the Phoenix, my boy, and we cannot ignore the tradition, no matter what our feelings may be. Do you see?"

"No!" David cried. "Please, Phoenix, don't do it! It's horrible! I won't let you do it!"

"But I must, my dear chap! I cannot help it. This is what it means to be the Phoenix. Nothing can stop the tradition. Please, my boy, do not take on so! It is not in the least horrible, I assure you. My Instinct tells me so."

"You said you were going to give me an education," David sobbed. "You said we would see—you said—and we've only been on four adventures—you never told me about this—"

"I am terribly sorry, my boy. I could not tell you about it because I did not know about it until now. As for your education, it is a pity to have it cut short in this way. I had great plans.... But consider—you have had four adventures which no one else in the whole world has had! And besides, my boy, we shall see each other again. I do not know how or where, but I am positive of it." The Phoenix flicked a tear from its eye with the tip of one wing, while with the other it patted David awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Don't go, Phoenix, please don't go."

"I must, my boy. Here, permit me to present you with a small token (ouch!) of our friendship."

Dimly, through his tears, David saw the Phoenix pluck the longest, bluest feather from its tail, and he felt it being pressed into his hand.

"Good-by, David," said the Phoenix gruffly.

David could stand it no longer. He turned and rushed blindly from the Phoenix, blundered into the thicket, and dropped to the ground with his head buried in his arms. Behind him he heard the sticks snapping as the Phoenix mounted its pyre. A match rasped against the box. The first tongue of flame sizzled in the branches. David pressed his hands over his ears to shut out the sound, but he could feel the heat of the flames as they sprang up. And the noise would not be shut out. It grew and grew, popping, crackling, roaring, until it seemed to fill the world....

* * * * *

Perhaps he fainted. Or perhaps from numbness he slipped into a kind of deep sleep. Whichever it was, he returned to consciousness again suddenly. His hands had slipped from his ears, and a sound had brought him back. He lifted his head and listened. The fire had burnt itself out now. The only noise was the hiss and pop of dying embers. But these sounds were too gentle to have awakened him—it must have been something else. Yes—it was a voice. He could hear it quite plainly now. There were angry shouts coming from somewhere below the ledge.

Carefully avoiding the sight of the pyre, David crawled to the edge and glanced over. Far down, on the slope at the foot of the scarp, was a tiny figure dancing and bellowing with rage. The Scientist had returned and discovered the ruins of his blind. David watched him dully. No need to worry about him any more. How harmless he looked now, even ridiculous! David turned away.

He noticed then that he was holding something in his hand, something soft and heavy. As he lifted it to look more closely, it flashed in the sunlight. It was the feather the Phoenix had given him, the tail feather. Tail feather?... But the Phoenix's tail had been a sapphire blue. The feather in his hand was of the purest, palest gold.

There was a slight stir behind him. In spite of himself, he glanced at the remains of the pyre. His mouth dropped open. In the middle of the white ashes and glowing coals there was movement. Something within was struggling up toward the top. The noises grew stronger and more definite. Charred sticks were being snapped, ashes kicked aside, embers pushed out of the way. Now, like a plant thrusting its way out of the soil, there appeared something pale and glittering, which nodded in the breeze. Little tongues of flame, it seemed, licking out into the air.... No, not flames! A crest of golden feathers!... A heave from below lifted the ashes in the center of the pile, a fine cloud of flakes swirled up into the breeze, there was a flash of sunlight glinting on brilliant plumage. And from the ruins of the pyre stepped forth a magnificent bird.

It was the Phoenix, it must be the Phoenix! But it was a new and different Phoenix. It was young and wild, with a fierce amber eye; its crest was tall and proud, its body the slim, muscular body of a hunter, its wings narrow and long and pointed like a falcon's, the great beak and talons razor-sharp and curving. And all of it, from crest to talons, was a burnished gold that reflected the sun in a thousand dazzling lights.

The bird stretched its wings, shook the ash from its tail, and began to preen itself. Every movement was like the flash of a silent explosion.

"Phoenix," David whispered. "Phoenix."

The bird started, turned toward him, looked at him for an instant with wild, fearless eyes, then continued its preening. Suddenly it stopped and cocked its head as if listening to something. Then David heard it too: a shout down the mountainside, louder and clearer now, excited and jubilant. He shivered and looked down. The Scientist was tearing up the goat trail as fast as his long legs would carry him—and he was waving a rifle.

"Phoenix!" David cried. "Fly! Fly, Phoenix!"

The bird looked at the Scientist, then at David, its glance curious but without understanding. Paralyzed with fear, David remained on his knees as the Scientist reached an open place and threw the gun up to his shoulder. The bullet went whining by with an ugly hornet-noise, and the report of the gun echoed along the scarp.



"Fly, Phoenix!" David sobbed. A second bullet snarled at the bird, and spattered out little chips of rock from the inner wall of the ledge.

"Oh, fly, fly!" David jumped up and flung himself between the bird and the Scientist. "It's me!" he cried. "It's David!" The bird gazed at him closely, and a light flickered in its eye as though the name had reached out and almost, but not quite, touched an ancient memory. Hesitantly it stretched forth one wing, and with the tip of it lightly brushed David's forehead, leaving there a mark that burned coolly.

"Get away from that bird, you little idiot!" the Scientist shrieked. "GET AWAY!"

David ignored him. "Fly, Phoenix!" he cried, and he pushed the bird toward the edge.

Understanding dawned in the amber eyes at last. The bird, with one clear, defiant cry, leaped to an out-jutting boulder. The golden wings spread, the golden neck curved back, the golden talons pushed against the rock. The bird launched itself into the air and soared out over the valley, sparkling, flashing, shimmering; a flame, large as a sunburst, a meteor, a diamond, a star, diminishing at last to a speck of gold dust, which glimmered twice in the distance before it was gone altogether.

* * * * *



The Author

Edward Ormondroyd

When Edward Ormondroyd was about thirteen, his family moved from Pennsylvania to Ann Arbor, Michigan. He and a friend began to read Arthur Ransome's boating stories and, inspired by the adventures of the Swallows, built their own fourteen-foot sailboat and tried to re-create that English magic on the Huron River.

In 1943 he graduated from high school and joined the Navy. Destroyer Escort 419 was his home for the next two years. "When the war was over, she looked in on China and Korea, and came home. She did show me San Francisco Bay at dusk. One look convinced me that I would like to live by it; and I have, ever since."

After the war, Mr. Ormondroyd went to the University of California at Berkeley. He graduated in 1951, and since then has been busy writing, sailing as able seaman aboard a tanker, and working as a bookstore clerk and machine tender. He lives in Berkeley, California. He is married and has one son.

It was while Mr. Ormondroyd was at college that David and the Phoenix first intruded into his consciousness. "One day, when I was walking across campus, I had a sudden vision of a large and pompous bird diving out of a window, tripping on the sill, and falling into a rose arbor below. I had to explain to myself why the poor bird was in such a situation in the first place, and what became of it afterwards. The result of my investigation was DAVID AND THE PHOENIX."

* * * * *



David and

the Phoenix

Edward Ormondroyd

Illustrated by Joan Raysor

David knew that one should be prepared for anything when one climbs a mountain, but he never dreamed what he would find that June morning on the mountain ledge.

There stood an enormous bird, with a head like an eagle, a neck like a swan, and a scarlet crest. The most astonishing thing was that the bird had an open book on the ground and was reading from it!

This was David's first sight of the fabulous Phoenix and the beginning of a pleasant and profitable partnership. The Phoenix found a great deal lacking in David's education—he flunked questions like "How do you tell a true from a false Unicorn?"—and undertook to supplement it with a practical education, an education that would be a preparation for Life. The education had to be combined with offensive and defensive measures against a Scientist who was bent on capturing the Phoenix, but the two projects together involved exciting and hilarious adventures for boy and bird.

A wonderful read-aloud book, adventurous and very funny, with much of the magic as well as the humor of the fantastic.

Follett Publishing Company

New York CHICAGO Toronto

* * * * *

THE END