Flight of the Phoenix (Nathaniel Fludd, Beastologist, Book I), Page 2

  There was a loud clatter and thump from somewhere outside. Nate turned from the map and went to look out the window. He blew aside a small pile of dead flies on the windowsill, then pressed his nose to the cold glass.

  Torches were lit down in the yard, where Nate could make out an enormous, strange wing-shaped object. A beast, perhaps? No, it was an airplane, he finally realized.

  Why did Aunt Phil have an airplane in her backyard? He pressed closer to the glass and saw Aunt Phil loading supplies into the cargo hold. She was getting ready to go on a trip.

  His heart sank. Who was going to watch him? The dodo?

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  Surely it would have been better for him just to stay in his old house with Miss Lumpton. Except, he reminded himself, Miss Lumpton wanted her Tidy Sum more than him.

  Discouraged, he went over and set his suitcase on the bed. Best get this horrible day behind him and get some sleep. He opened the suitcase to collect his pajamas, then stopped.

  There was a carefully folded pink flannel nightgown, two pairs of woolen stockings, a stack of old letters, and a pair of women's drawers.

  Cheeks flaming with embarrassment, he slammed the lid shut. He'd gotten Miss Lumpton's suitcase by mistake!

  Tears, hot and prickly, stung his eyes. He jammed his fists into them and rubbed hard. Feeling miserable, he slipped out of his jacket and shoes and climbed into the strange bed. The sheets felt colder than normal, the blanket thinner. He huddled under the covers and missed his own bed. He missed the bedtime stories Miss Lumpton read to him, even if they were a bit boring.

  Unable to sleep, he got up and fetched his sketchbook and pencil. He crawled back under the covers and propped

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  himself up on the pillows. He chewed the end of the pencil, trying to remember what his parents looked like. By the time he fell asleep, all he'd been able to draw was his father's mustache and the small beauty mark on his mother's chin.

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  ***

  Chapter Four

  "Wake up, Nate. " A hand gently shook his shoulder. "Time to get up, dear. We must be off."

  "What? Huh?" Nate sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering where he was. When he caught sight of the strange woman leaning over his bed, it all came rushing back to him.

  "How clever of you to have slept in your clothes," Aunt Phil said. "You won't even have to get ready this morning."

  "I slept in my clothes because I don't have any pajamas. I got Miss Lumpton's suitcase by mistake."

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  "That's just as well, as we'll have to travel light." Still trying to clear the sleep from his brain, Nate looked at her in puzzlement.

  "Didn't Cornelius tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  "That we had to leave first thing this morning?"

  Nate shook his head. He was certain the dodo hadn't mentioned anything of the sort.

  "That dodo." Aunt Phil shook her head in exasperation. "Well, we must hurry. I want to take off before the wind picks up."

  It finally dawned on Nate. "You mean you want me to go with you?"

  Aunt Phil's face softened. "But of course. What did you think I'd do? Leave you behind with nothing but old Cornelius for company?"

  Nate began fiddling with the edge of the blanket.

  "Oh dear. That's exactly what you thought." Aunt Phil sat down on the bed next to him. "I'm not sure why your parents didn't take you with them, Nate, but normally all Fludds begin their training by the time they're eight. By my calculations, you're two years overdue."

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  Nate stopped fiddling with the blanket. Aunt Phil's words had jogged a memory loose. "They said they'd send for me when I turned eight," he said. "But they never did."

  "Surely they explained their reasons to you in their letters?"

  Nate's fingers found the blanket corner again. "There weren't any letters."

  "What?" Aunt Phil sounded shocked. She stood up and began pacing. "That's not right," she muttered. "They should have sent you letters."

  Although he was glad to have her sympathy, Nate felt he should defend his parents. "Maybe they were too busy," he suggested.

  "No, no. Fludds always write letters." She stopped pacing and glanced out the window. "There is so much to explain and so little time. It will have to wait until later. We really must take off before that wind picks up."

  She took a rucksack from the dresser and tossed it onto the bed. "You can pack your things in there," she said. "Meet me in the kitchen." She turned to leave.

  "Wait!" Nate called out.

  Aunt Phil paused at the door.

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  "Where are we going?" Nate asked.

  "To Arabia, Nate. We have to oversee the birth of the new phoenix. It happens only once every five hundred years," she said. "So we can't be late!"

  A phoenix! Nate thought as he stuffed his feet into his shoes. But they were myths. Legends.

  Something hot and itchy rose in his chest. He couldn't tell if it was fear or excitement. Cornelius had told him that beastologists dealt with beasts that other people thought were myths. Nate had thought the bird was just trying to make himself seem important.

  He shrugged into his jacket sleeves, then grabbed his sketchbook and pencil and shoved them into the rucksack. As he hurried toward the stairs, he hoped he'd get breakfast before they left.

  Nate took three wrong turns before he reached the kitchen, but he hardly even noticed. He wasn't going to be left behind this time--he could barely get his mind around that.

  As he approached the kitchen, he caught raised voices. "You were supposed to tell him about the phoenix." It was Aunt Phil.

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  "Yes, well, seeing as he didn't even know what a beastologist was, that seemed to be putting the cart before the horse. Are you sure taking him with you is a good idea?" Nate stopped cold at Cornelius's words.

  "Of course it is. He's a Fludd and it's long past time he began his training."

  "Yes, but there are Fludds and then there are Fludds. He is rather lacking in the basic Fludd talents. When I told him the water closet was down the hall to the north, he looked south."

  Aunt Phil sniffed loudly. "So he needs a good compass. Nothing wrong with that."

  "Except when you are going into dangerous territory and he's your backup."

  "He's the only Fludd left besides me--"

  "Which is exactly my point. We can't afford to lose any more of you. Perhaps he should stay here with me. We can work on the basics, and then when you return, he won't be so far behind. He'll have some skills for you to work with."

  The dodo's words made Nate squirm. Even a stupid, supposed-to-be-extinct bird knew he wasn't a proper Fludd.

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  Even worse, it sounded as though his lack of skill would put them in danger.

  Blindly, Nate turned around to escape back the way he'd come. He'd hide in one of those old rooms till Aunt Phil left, and then he'd find a way to sneak back to his own house. Except when he turned, he went left instead of right and bumped smack into a bureau. A pair of silver candlesticks tumbled to the floor with a clang.

  "Nate! Is that you?" Aunt Phil's fuzzy head appeared in the doorway. "Come on in. Your breakfast is getting cold."

  Not wanting to admit he'd overheard them, Nate shuffled into the kitchen, careful not to meet Cornelius's eye. "Miss Lumpton says birds are dirty and have mites," he muttered.

  The dodo puffed up and opened his beak to say something, but Aunt Phil shushed him.

  Once Nate had taken a seat, Aunt Phil plunked a platter of bacon and eggs in front of him. Nate poked at the flat fried egg that was burned around the edges. "I always have a boiled egg for breakfast," he said. He'd long ago learned to stop asking for anything else. "And porridge," he added. "But I think I'm allergic to porridge."

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  "Well, you're safe. There's no porridge here. Bacon and eggs are all I've got," Aunt Phil said. "I suggest you eat up. It ma
y well be our last hot breakfast for quite a while." She took a seat across from him, but instead of eating her breakfast, she unrolled a large map. "Do you know where Arabia is?" she asked.

  "No, ma'am," Nate said around a bite of bacon. "I'm not allowed to look at maps."

  "Why ever not?" Aunt Phil asked.

  "Miss Lumpton thinks they remind me of my parents."

  "Well, rightfully so," Aunt Phil said roundly. "Your parents were mapmakers, after all."

  "She thinks talking about them upsets me."

  "And does it?" Aunt Phil asked.

  Nate shrugged and took another bite of bacon. After a long moment, Aunt Phil turned back to the map. "Well, Arabia is in the Near East. We'll fly across the channel to France, then down across Europe to Turkey. We'll clip the Mediterranean Sea, then land in Arabia. We'll stop for a short rest and refueling near Budapest."

  Almost against his will, Nate's eyes went to the top of the map. The North Pole.

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  Aunt Phil saw where he was looking. She put her finger just above a tiny speck of land. "That's where the airship went down. Spitsbergen."

  Nate's throat grew thick and tight. He cleared it and pointed to the familiar gold and blue starburst down in the bottom left-hand corner. "What's that?" It had been on all the maps Nate had seen so far.

  "A compass rose," Aunt Phil explained. "The Fludd compass rose, to be exact. It's how you can tell if a map was drawn by a Fludd or someone else. Now, it's time to go. Got your rucksack?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Right here." He patted his lap.

  "Excellent. Here. You'll need a few more things." She handed him a canteen, a close-fitting leather cap, a muffler, and a pair of funny-looking round glasses encased in leather. "Goggles. To keep the bugs and dust out," she explained.

  Feeling a little more prepared, Nate followed Aunt Phil to the door.

  "We'll see you in a week or two, Cornelius."

  The old dodo glanced at Nate. "Hopefully," he drawled.

  Nate turned to the dodo. Mites, he silently mouthed.

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  Cornelius squawked and puffed up his feathers. Aunt Phil grabbed Nate's elbow and dragged him outside.

  Up close, in broad daylight, the plane looked old and rickety--flimsy, even. The fabric skin was ripped and patched in places. The metal covering the front was dented and pitted. "Will this thing really fly?" Nate asked.

  "Of course it will," Aunt Phil said, steering him to the nose of the plane. "This Sopwith Platypus performed spectacularly in the Great War and still has a lot of good years left in it."

  "Why is it called a platypus?" he asked.

  "Because it's comfortable landing on both water and land. Now stop dawdling and get up on that barrel. When I give the signal, grab hold of the propeller and give a hard yank."

  Aunt Phil left to go climb into the plane. Steadying the barrel with both hands, Nate clambered up onto it, hoping the whole thing wouldn't tip over. Slowly, he stood up. When the engine sputtered to life, his whole body rumbled with the force of it.

  "Now!" she shouted.

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  Stretching up on his tiptoes, Nate grasped the propeller blade with both hands and pulled down hard.

  His hands slid off the prop as if they'd been greased. He stared down at them, dumbfounded.

  "Probably oil from the barrel," Aunt Phil shouted at him over the engine noise. "Here." She tossed him a rag. He reached out and caught it, surprising himself.

  "Good catch! Wipe your hands before you try again."

  Nate did as he was told, then stuffed the rag into his pocket.

  "Ready?" Aunt Phil yelled.

  "Ready!" he yelled back.

  "Now!"

  This time when he pulled down on the propeller, it spun, slowly at first and then faster and faster. Afraid he'd be chopped into bits, Nate leaped down off the barrel, causing it to tip over. A thick, heavy liquid began to glug-glug all over the grass.

  "Careful, Nate, that's worth a pretty penny!" Aunt Phil called out.

  Nate quickly righted the barrel, wiped his hands on the rag again, then hurried over and climbed into the tiny,

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  cramped cockpit. He busied himself fastening his helmet and positioning the goggles over his eyes.

  "Hold on," Aunt Phil cried, and the airplane lurched forward. The roar of the engine drowned out everything else. Nate gripped the sides as the plane rolled and bumped its way across the field. When it picked up speed, his stomach fluttered and he couldn't tell if he was going to giggle or throw up.

  As they hurtled down the field, Nate realized they were running out of room. The neighbor's house was coming up in front of them. Fast.

  The engine continued to roar, the motor straining with the effort. The house drew closer. Just as Nate was about to duck, the motor gave a final whine and the plane lurched upward. As the ground fell away, Nate's stomach felt as if it dropped down to his toes.

  He wasn't sure, but he thought one of the wheels clipped the chimney as they flew by.

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  ***

  Chapter Five

  Nate was torn between excitement and terror as they climbed

  higher and higher into the air. The breakfast he'd eaten earlier felt like lead rocks in his stomach. Below him, the entire world fell away, growing smaller and smaller until it looked like one of die maps on Aunt Phil's walls.

  Once he realized the plane would stay in the air and not go crashing to the ground, he had to admit it was thrilling to soar through the sky like a bird. Without warning, they plowed into a fluffy white cloud. Nate gasped at the shocking, damp cold of it.

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  [Image: Geese flying.]

  Just as quickly, they emerged once again into the early morning sun.

  They passed a small flock of geese flying in formation. Nate wasn't sure who was more surprised, him or the geese. Nate quickly noticed that the higher they climbed, the colder it got. He was glad of his helmet and jacket and wished he had a pair of gloves. His hands were white and numb with cold.

  Or maybe he was just hanging on too tightly. He relaxed his grip, his fingers tingling as the blood flow returned.

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  When they'd been in the air for more than an hour, the excitement of his first flight wore off. The airplane was loud and stank of petrol. It vibrated so hard that Nate was certain it would shake his teeth loose. He was cold and cramped, and there was nothing to do but count the stitches on Aunt Phil's leather helmet in front of him.

  Nate quickly became drowsy. He remembered reading somewhere that people fell asleep just before they died of exposure, so he tried to fight it. In the end, he decided if he had to freeze to death, it would be better to be asleep than awake.

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  Nate awoke with a start as the plane touched down in the night. They bounced along a bumpy road lit by a searchlight mounted on the front of the plane. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Nate also saw torches lining the runway.

  After another minute of bouncing, the plane shuddered to a stop. Nate checked his limbs to be sure he was all in one piece.

  "Well, we've arrived in Budapest. Do you want to stretch your legs?" Aunt Phil asked.

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  Nate very much did want to stretch his legs. Without wasting another second, he scrambled out of the plane and joined Aunt Phil on the ground. A group of men stood before a small fire in front of a rough-looking shack.

  Aunt Phil cupped her hand around her mouth. "Halloo! We're here to refuel."

  The men nodded and began talking among themselves in a strange language. Two hurried into the shack, then came back out carrying a ladder and a huge funnel. The others had already reached the plane and began unloading fuel cans from the cargo hold.

  "They seem to know just what to do," Nate said.

  "Of course they do. They refuel the airmail service that runs from London to Budapest. They're old hands at this."

  Nate watched as a man climbed up the ladder and
began pouring the fuel into the airplane's fuselage through the large funnel. The smell of petrol filled the air.

  "I'm going to catch a quick wink while they fill the plane," Aunt Phil said. "They've plenty of cots in there, so you're welcome to do the same. Or wander around and explore a bit, whatever you'd prefer." With that, Aunt Phil disappeared into the shack.

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  The first thing Nate did was go find some privacy behind the nearby bushes. When he returned, three of the men were still refueling the plane, but the rest had returned to their fire. He wasn't sure what to do, so he wandered over toward them, feeling shy. They stopped talking when he drew close. One of them pointed to his hair, then nudged the man next to him. The other man nodded and smiled. "Flutt," he said, and they all laughed. But it was a friendly laugh, so Nate smiled back.

  Someone shoved a bowl of hot stew into his hand. Goulash, they called it. As Nate wolfed it down, one of the men took out a flutelike instrument and began to play softly.

  When Nate was done, he thanked the men and went inside the shack. He was surprised at how tired he was, since he'd slept most of the flight over. He fumbled around until he found an empty cot. He settled under the blanket, warm and full with the strange music sounding softly in his ears. Maybe travel wouldn't be that bad after all.

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  The next morning, they were back in the plane and on their way before the sun had risen. Things quickly returned to the