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- Author: Edward Ormondroyd
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He dropped down on his stomach and carefully began to worm his way under the thicket. The branches grew very low, and the ground was full of lumps and knobs which dug into him with every movement. There were vines, too, and some prickly things like thistles, which had to be pushed out of the way without allowing their leaves to rustle. He progressed by inches, pushing with his toes, pulling with his finger tips, wriggling with the rest of his body. At last he could see light breaking through the foliage in front of him—he was nearing the other side. A bunch of leaves hung before his face. He hesitated, then pushed them aside gently, slowly—and peered out.
He thought his heart would stop.
2: In Which David
Meets the Phoenix,
and There Is a
Change in Plans
There stood an enormous bird.
David had been to the zoo, and at home he had a book of birds with colored pictures. He knew the more common large birds of the world: the ostrich, the condor, the albatross, eagles, cranes, storks. But this bird—! Its shape was like that of an eagle, but stouter. Its neck had the length and elegant curve of a swan's neck. Its head was again like an eagle's, with a hooked bird-of-prey beak, but the expression in its brown eyes was mild. The long wings were blunt at the tips, the tail was short and broad. The legs, feathered halfway down, ended in taloned feet. An iridescent sheen sparkled on its plumage, reflecting sunlight from the scarlet crest, the golden neck and back, the breast of silver, the sapphire wings and tail. Its size alone would have been enough to take David's breath away. He could have stood beneath the arch of that neck with room to spare.
But the most astonishing thing was that the bird had an open book on the ground and was apparently trying to learn part of it by heart.
"Vivo, vives, vive," the bird read, very slowly and distinctly, staring hard at the book. "Vivimos, vivís, viven. That is simple enough, you blockhead! Now, then, without looking." It cleared its throat, looked away from the book, and repeated in a rapid mutter: "Vivo vives vive vi—ah—vivi—oh, dear, what is the matter with me?" Here the temptation to peek overcame it for an instant, and its head wavered. But it said, "No, no!" in a firm tone, looked carefully the other way, and began once more.
"Vivo, vives, vive—quite correct so far. Ah—vi—ah—Oh, dear, these verbs! Where was I? Oh, yes. Vivo—"
David's head reeled as he watched this amazing performance. There was no need to pinch himself to see if he were dreaming: he was perfectly wide awake. Everything else around him was behaving in a normal way. The mountain was solid beneath him, the sunlight streamed down as before. Yet there was the bird, unmistakably before him, undeniably studying its book and speaking to itself. David's mind caught hold of a phrase and repeated it over and over again: "What on earth? What on earth?" But of course there was no answer to that question. And he might have lain hidden there all day, staring out at the bird and marveling, had it not been for a bee which came droning into the thicket straight for him.
He had a horror of bees, ever since he had once bumped into a hive by mistake. When he heard that dread sound approaching, his whole body broke into a sweat. All thought of the bird was immediately driven from his head. He could tell from the noise that it was one of those big black-and-yellow fuzzy bees, the ones with the nasty dispositions. Perhaps—the thought paralyzed him—perhaps he was lying on its nest. On it came, buzzing and blundering through the leaves. Suddenly it was upon him, so close that he could feel the tiny breeze stirred up by its wings. All self-control vanished. He beat at it wildly with his hands, burst out of the thicket like an explosion, and smashed full tilt into the bird before he could stop himself.
With a piercing squawk the bird shot into the air, flipped over, and came fluttering down facing him—talons outstretched, hooked beak open, eyes a-glare. Completely terrified, David turned and bolted for the thicket. He managed to thrash halfway through when a vine trapped his feet. He pitched forward, shielding his face with his arms, and was caught up short by a dead branch snagging his shirt.
He was stuck. This was the end. He closed his eyes and waited, too numb with fear to think or cry out.
Nothing happened. Slowly he turned his head around. The bird, although it still glared menacingly, seemed undecided whether to attack or flee.
"What, may I ask, are you doing here?" it said at last, in a severe voice.
"I—I—I was taking a walk," David said faintly. "I'm awfully sorry if I bothered you or anything."
"You should not have come up here at all," the bird snapped.
"Well, I'm really sorry. But there was a bee in the bush here. I—I didn't mean to...." The fright had been too much. Tears started in David's eyes, and his lip began to tremble.
The bird seemed reassured, for its manner visibly softened. It lowered and folded its wings, and the glare faded from its eyes.
"I'd go away," David mumbled apologetically, "only I'm stuck." He rubbed his eyes on his sleeve.
The bird looked at his dismal face and began to fidget awkwardly. "There, there," it said. "I had no intention of—I am afraid that I—Stuck, did you say? Very easily mended, my dear fellow! Merely a question of—Here, let me look." It crashed through the thicket to where David was caught and thrust its head down through the branches. Its muffled voice came floating up. "Take heart! There seems to be—aha! just so—One moment, please—bit of vine—there we are!" There was a snapping sound from below, and David's foot was released. He unstuck the snag from his shirt, pushed his way out of the thicket, and sat down weakly on the grass. Whew! At least the bird was not going to harm him. It seemed to be quite a kindly creature, really. He had just frightened it and made it angry by bursting out of the bushes so suddenly.
He heard a flailing in the thicket, followed by the bird's anxious voice: "Hello! Are you still there?"
"Yes. What—?"
There were more sounds of struggle. "This is rather awkward. I—the fact is, I am afraid, that I am stuck myself. Could you—"
"Yes, of course," said David. He smiled to himself, a little shakily, and re-entered the thicket. When he had disentangled the bird, the two of them sat down on the grass and looked at each other. They hesitated, not quite sure how to begin.
"I trust," said the bird at last, "that you are not of a scientific turn of mind?"
"I don't know," said David. "I'm interested in things, if that's what you mean."
"No, it is not. There is a great deal of difference between the interest shown by normal people and the obsessive interest of scientists. You are not, I hope, acquainted with any scientists?"
"No."
"Ah," said the bird, with a relieved sigh. "Everything is quite all right, then. I do hope that you will forgive my behavior. I am not usually so rude. The fact is that you gave me quite a horrible start."
"Oh, I'm sorry I frightened you."
"Frightened, my dear fellow?" said the bird testily. "I am never frightened. I do not know the meaning of the word."
"What I mean is," David said quickly, "that you frightened me." This seemed to pacify the bird; and David, to heighten the good impression, added: "Golly, you looked fierce."
The bird smiled complacently, "I can rise to a terrifying ferocity when aroused. A noble strain of fighting blood courses through my veins. Not that I go out of my way to seek quarrels, you understand. On the contrary. 'Peaceful' could well describe my general attitude. Meditative. I am usually to be found Thinking. I have a powerful intellect. No doubt you have noticed the stamp of genius on my brow."
David supposed that the bird meant its scarlet crest, and he nodded. "That's one of the first things I noticed about you."
"Indeed?" cried the bird delightedly. "You are certainly more alert than most! But, as I was saying, I am usually to be found Thinking. The first condition of Thinking is solitude. And that, I fear, is a desideratum most difficult of realization."
"I beg your pardon?"
"People," explained the bird, "do not leave you alone."
"Oh," said David. He flushed, thinking that the words had been aimed at him, and began to get up. But the bird signaled him to remain where he was.
"I do not mean you, my dear fellow. I assure you that I am delighted to make your acquaintance. It is all the others. Do you know that I have spent the greater part of my life being pursued? I was chased out of Egypt like a common game bird. Out of the mountains of Greece, too. The hills of Lebanon, the desert of Africa, the Arabian wilds—no matter where I fled, people would come prying and peering and sneaking after me. I have tried Tibet, China, and the steppes of Siberia—with the same result. At last I heard of a region where there was peace, where the inhabitants let each other alone. Here, I thought, I should—"
"Pardon me for interrupting. Where?"
"Why, here, to be brief," said the bird, waving its wing toward the valley. "Here, I thought, I should be able to breathe. At my age one likes a little quiet. Would you believe that I am close to five hundred years old?"
"Golly!" said David. "You don't look it."
The bird gave a pleased laugh. "My splendid physical condition does conceal my years. At any rate, I settled here in the hope of being left alone. But do you think I was safe?"
David, seeing that he was supposed to answer no, shook his head.
"Quite right," sighed the bird. "I was not. I had been here no more than three months when a Scientist was hot on my trail. A most disagreeable fellow, always sneaking about with binoculars, a camera, and, I fear, a gun. That is why you startled me for an instant. I thought you were he."
"Oh," David cried, "I'm awfully sorry. I didn't bother you on purpose. It's just that I never saw a mountain before, so I climbed up here to see what one looked like."
"You climbed up here?"
"Yes."
"Climbed," said the bird, looking very thoughtful. "Climbed ... I might have known.... It proves, you see, that the same thing could be done again by someone older and stronger. A very grave point."
"Oh, I see," said David. "You mean the—"
"Precisely! The Scientist. He is, I fear, very persistent. I first noticed him over there"—the bird waved its wing toward the opposite side of the valley—"so I removed to this location. But he will undoubtedly continue his pursuit. The bad penny always turns up. It will not be long before the sharp scientific nose is again quivering in my direction."
"Oh, dear, that's terrible!"
"Your sympathy touches me," said the bird huskily. "It is most unusual to find someone who understands. But have no fear for me. I am taking steps. I am preparing. Imagine his disappointment when he arrives here and finds me flown from the nest. I am, to be brief, leaving. Do you see this book?"
"Yes," said David. "I heard you reading it, but I couldn't understand it. Is it magic?"
"No, my boy, it is Spanish. I have chosen a little spot (chilly, but isolated) in the Andes Mountains. South America, you know. And
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