"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...."
[Illustration]
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_
[Illustration]
"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!"
* * * * *
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
"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_