David and the Phoenix Part 19

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 a.s.sure 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 friends.h.i.+p."

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 c.o.c.ked 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 s.h.i.+vered 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"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, flas.h.i.+ng, s.h.i.+mmering; a flame, large as a sunburst, a meteor, a diamond, a star, diminis.h.i.+ng 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 Francis...o...b..y 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."