“It’s as big as a dragon!” gasped Jack.
“Bigger,” breathed Esmeralda.
“I’ve never seen a dragon,” offered Trundle. “Particularly big, are they?”
“Fairly big,” said Jack. He cocked a thumb at the phoenix. “About that big, generally speaking.”
The huge snoring bird reared up above them, as high as the roof of Trundle’s little cottage back in Port Shiverstones, and at least twice as wide. From up close, he looked even more mangy and wretched than before.
Ishmael was already clambering through the spiky nest, giggling to himself and muttering about roasting dishes and basting spoons.
Rrrrrrrppppph! came a fresh report from the huge bird.
“’Scuse me…,” he muttered drowsily. “Must apologize…”
“Pardon me for being rude,” burbled Ishmael. “It was not me, it was my food, a message came right from my heart, it were no burp, it were—”
“Enough poetry, I think, Ishmael,” Esmeralda called. She gave her companions a hollow-eyed look. “Come on, let’s get this over with. We need to wake him up somehow!”
Very cautiously, they clambered in Ishmael’s wake through the thorny and spiky web of the nest. A spike got itself jammed in Trundle’s jacket, and it took all three of them to pull him loose. Jack was stabbed in the toe by a needle-sharp thorn, and he took some time out to hop about and swear before he felt able to continue. But at last they made their way through and met up again with Ishmael at the beak end of the enormous bird.
Trundle could hardly bring himself to look at the seedy and haggard old phoenix. Thick drool seeped from the gaping beak, and his abominable breath was nearly as bad as the smells that came from his other end. Then there was the crusty yellow gunk smeared all around his wrinkly old eyes, not to mention the bald patches where withered skin showed gray and saggy on his neck and head and chest. And all the while they stood there, his incessant snoring filled the air and made the ground tremble under their feet.
“Someone wake him up, then!” shouted Esmeralda over the deafening din.
“How?” yelled Jack.
“Poke him or something,” Esmeralda suggested. “Shout in his ear!”
“Trundle, you’re good at that sort of thing,” said Jack. “Go for it, lad!”
“What do you mean, I’m good at that sort of thing?” exclaimed Trundle. “I’m nothing of the sort.”
“Hands up for Trundle waking the phoenix!” shouted Esmeralda.
The hands of Jack, Esmeralda, and Ishmael shot into the air.
“Oh, thanks a bunch!” said Trundle with heavy irony. “Very fair, I call that!” But there was no point in arguing. He might just as well get on with it. After all, he thought, the sooner we get what we came for, the sooner we can get away from here.
He stepped gingerly up to the side of the bird’s head. “Hoy!” he yelled into his feathery ear. “Hoy! Phoenix! Wakey-wakey!”
The phoenix made no response.
Trundle leaned in closer, cupping his paws around his mouth. “Hoy!” he bellowed. “Hoy-oy-oy! Wake up, you mangy old wreck!”
“Trundle!” Esmeralda called anxiously. “Don’t upset him!”
“Upset him?” said Trundle. “How can I do that? He can’t hear a thing. He’s probably stone deaf on top of everything else.”
“Give him a good hard nudge,” suggested Jack. “That might do the trick.”
Trundle picked his way down the vast bird. He braced himself and jabbed a shoulder into the phoenix’s belly.
Phrrrrttt!
“Manners!” mumbled the phoenix.
“Crikey!” gasped Trundle, grabbing his snout in both hands. “Save us! I’m being gassed!”
“Where ere ye go, by land or sea, ye must always let yer wind go free!” cackled Ishmael, prancing from foot to foot. “That’s what me great-grandpappy taught to me!”
Shaking her head, Esmeralda clambered up to the bird’s head. “Excuse me, Mr. Phoenix Bird!” she bellowed at the top of her voice. “Wake up now, there’s a good fellow!”
She paused, her fists on her hips, her eyes narrowing determinedly.
“Fire!” she hollered. “The nest’s on fire! Every bird for himself!”
Grumble-rumble—wheeeeeeeze—grumblerumble—wheeeeeeze.
She turned her back to the bird, throwing her arms up. “Well, that’s me done! Anyone else got any bright ideas? Ishmael, will you please shut up for a minute, I can’t hear myself think above his snoring and your endless prattle!”
Trundle cocked an ear toward the dancing pirate. He was talking his usual nonsense—but it suddenly occurred to Trundle to pay better attention to Ishmael’s ramblings.
“Blackpowder and treacle—with just a dash of brimstone. That’ll wake him up—that’ll blow sparks out o’ his parson’s nose!”
Trundle’s eyes widened. He stumbled back to the others in sudden excitement. “Listen to Ishmael!” he told them.
They listened.
“He’s always saying that,” Esmeralda retorted. “He’s potty. So what’s new?”
“But what if it means something?” Trundle insisted. “Listen again.”
“Blackpowder and treacle—with just a dash of brimstone. That’ll wake him up—that’ll blow sparks out o’ his parson’s nose!”
Jack’s eyes widened. “Trundle, you’re a complete genius! That’s not nonsense at all—it’s a recipe for a potion to wake someone up.”
“Not just someone,” said Trundle. “The phoenix!” He looked at Esmeralda. “You’re always going on about the Fates being on our side. Well, I think you’re right. The Fates sent Ishmael to us, and Ishmael is giving us the very method we need to wake this stinky old ruin!”
“There’s treacle on the Thief in the Night,” said Jack. He turned to Ishmael. “Hey, have you got any blackpowder on you, old chap?”
“Surely I do,” cried Ishmael, pulling a small leather pouch from inside his raggedy shirt. “A pirate must keep his powder close and dry, or the cannon go quiet and the balls won’t fly.”
“Good, good,” said Esmeralda, Trundle’s enthusiasm reflected in her gleaming eyes. “So we’ve got treacle and blackpowder. But what about brimstone? I don’t even know what brimstone is.”
“Whee-yoop!” shrieked Jack. “I do! I do! It’s sulfur! Brimstone is another name for sulfur, and the outer slopes of this mountain are covered in the stuff! All we need to do is gather some in a pot, mix it with treacle and some of Ishmael’s blackpowder, and—hey presto—instant wake-up potion!”
“And once the phoenix is awake, we give him back his feather,” said Trundle.
“And he tells us where to find the Crown of Fire,” whooped Esmeralda. “Job done!”
Brrrrrph!
“Who did that?” mumbled the phoenix.
“You did, you foul old fowl!” chortled Ishmael.
They were on the outer slopes of the mountain. Jack had clambered all the way back to the Thief in the Night and returned with a jar of treacle, a medium-size saucepan, and a large spoon.
Wincing and clutching his nose with one paw, Trundle had been “volunteered” to go and fetch some of the nasty yellowy sulfur stuff. He came back with a brimming spoonful, holding it at arm’s length. The others backed away as he emptied the thick, stinking goop into the saucepan.
“So?” he asked. “What are the proportions of the mixture?” He looked at Ishmael. “You know, the recipe. How much treacle to how much brimstone and so on.”
“Just lob the stuff in, Trun,” said Esmeralda, from a safe distance. “I don’t think you’ll need to be too precise.”
Shrugging, Trundle unscrewed the lid from the jar of treacle and poured in a few thick dollops on top of the sulfur brimstone. There was a blubbery sort of blooping noise from within the saucepan, and some steam rose up.
Next Trundle opened the pouch of blackpowder and poured its contents into the saucepan. The mixture hissed and bubbled and smoked.
“Stir it
nicely,” suggested Esmeralda.
“I don’t know why I have to do it all,” Trundle remarked as he poked at the smelly mess in the saucepan with the spoon.
“Because there’s no point in all of us being at risk, is there?” Esmeralda explained.
“At risk?” exclaimed Trundle. “At risk of what?”
“Nothing at all,” Esmeralda said reassuringly. “Don’t make such a fuss. Now mix it all up like the good fellow you are, and then we can get busy.”
“Well, it had better work, that’s all I can say,” mumbled Trundle as he attacked the oozing goo with the spoon. “And the next time any of us has to do something totally revolting—it’s not going to be me!”
“No, of course not,” said Esmeralda, far too quickly.
With the potion mixed, Trundle lifted the saucepan by the very tip of its handle and carried it back up the mountain.
“Where exactly did you hear about this potion?” Jack asked Ishmael as they followed Trundle at a discreet distance.
“I learned it at me great-grandpappy’s knee, so I did,” said Ishmael. “And he learned it at his great-grandpappy’s knee. And his great-grandpappy learned it from his great-grandpappy.” As he spoke, his voice got gradually faster. “And his great-grandpappy learned it from his great-grandpappy. And-his-great-grandpappy-learned-it-from-his-great-grandpappy. Andhisgreatgrandpappylearnedit—”
“Enough with the great-grandpappies!” exploded Esmeralda. “Let’s just assume it’s been in your family for a while, eh?”
“It surely has, your ladyshipiness,” said Ishmael. “It surely has.”
Grumbling to himself, Trundle began the descent to the broken-down old nest and the even more broken-down old bird. “How do I get lumbered with these jobs?” he muttered under his breath. “Have I got ‘doormat’ tattooed on my forehead or something? Have I got ‘gullible twit’ stamped on my snout?”
“What are you going on about, Trundle?” called Esmeralda from several paces behind.
“Nothing!” said Trundle. “I’m just remarking on how much fun it is to be the one with the saucepan.”
“Good for you!”
“Grmph!”
Trundle clambered through the nest, careful not to allow the saucepan to be knocked out of his paw by the thorns and briars.
He arrived at the top end of the phoenix and looked back to see the other three peering at him through the jagged mesh of branches and twigs.
“Be careful, Trundle!” Esmeralda called. “He might be a bit grumpy at first. You know what old people can be like if they’re woken from a deep sleep.”
“Thanks!” snorted Trundle. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
He turned to the phoenix. Taking a deep, deep breath, he leaned forward and tipped the saucepan over above the bird’s open beak. The thick, blobby mixture came flopping out and landed with a squelchy splat on the sleeping bird’s tongue.
Trundle jumped back.
“Anything happening?” called Jack after a few moments.
“Not a lot,” said Trundle.
“Ishmael, if you’ve been messing us about—” began Esmeralda.
“Wait!” yowled Trundle, taking another step back. The huge beak had closed and opened and closed again and a mnyumm-mnyummm-mnyummm noise was coming from the phoenix.
“Very tasty,” the bird mumbled. “Very sweet…”
And then, with a suddenness that knocked Trundle onto his backside, the eyes of the huge bird snapped open, steam came hissing from his nostrils and ears, and he sat bolt upright with his neck stretched up and a startled and stunned look on his face.
A second later, the beak opened and smoke gushed out. “Gahhhh!” gasped the phoenix, cross-eyed. “Gahhh-gugggg-gahhhh!”
“Uh, hello there!” called Trundle, getting back onto his feet.
“Who? What? Where? Why? How?” gabbled the phoenix, his head twisting back and forth on his long scraggy neck.
“Yoo-hoo! Down here,” said Trundle, waving.
The beak dropped and the bloodshot eyes uncrossed and the phoenix fixed Trundle with a terrible gaze.
“You’d better have my tailfeather with you, boy,” croaked the ancient bird, “or I’ll want to know the reason why!”
“Yes! Yes, I do,” said Trundle, pulling the feather out from inside his jacket, where he’d tucked it again for safekeeping. “Look! It’s right here.”
The long neck bent and the head stooped down so that Trundle found himself snout to beak with the bad-tempered bird.
“Hrumph, lucky for you!” said the phoenix. “So—what kept you? Have you got any idea of how long I’ve been sitting around waiting for you to arrive? Do you, eh? Do you?”
“Well, no,” Trundle admitted. “But it’s been a while, I would imagine.”
“A while?” The phoenix almost choked with indignation. “It’s been two thousand years, you young whippersnapper! Two thousand years!” And so saying, he snapped his beak closed on the feather and tore it out of Trundle’s paw.
Trundle became aware of Esmeralda and the others at his side. They waited in polite silence while the phoenix twisted himself around with a few arthritic groans and gasps, finally managing to insert the lost feather into the raggy plumage close to his rear parts.
He turned back to them. “Well, now,” he said in a less grumpy tone, “what can I do for you? I take it you haven’t come all this way just out of the kindness of your hearts.”
“You are quite correct, O beautiful and puissant phoenix,” said Esmeralda.
“Beautiful?” whispered Trundle, staring at her in disbelief.
“Work with me here, Trun,” Esmeralda hissed out of the corner of her mouth. “Flattery never hurts!”
“We have traveled far through the endless blue skies of the Sundered Lands,” said Jack. “Seeking the lost Fiery Crown of the Badger Lords of Old. Could it be possible that in your glory and wisdom, you might be able to help us in our noble quest, O marvelous and awe-inspiring phoenix?”
“I might,” said the phoenix, lifting a wing and giving himself a quick grooming-type peck under there. “But first you must answer me this riddle.” He coughed, and his eyes turned skyward as if he was trying to remember something. “Ah, yes. That’s it.” His voice rose into a singsong croak. “Light as a feather, there’s nothing to it. But the strongest of creatures cannot hold it for more than a minute. What is it?”
“I’m not much good with riddles,” said Esmeralda.
Trundle grinned. “But I am,” he said, the merest hint of smugness coming into his voice. “The answer is ‘breath,’” he said, looking up at the phoenix. “Am I right, or am I right?”
“Perfectly right,” said the phoenix. “Well done.”
“I would have gotten it eventually,” said Esmeralda. “So? O beauteous and delightful phoenix, can you tell us now where we will find—”
“Which side of a phoenix has the most feathers?” asked the phoenix.
“I’m sorry?” said a puzzled Esmeralda.
“Answer the riddle,” said the phoenix.
Esmeralda frowned. “The top side?” she offered.
“No,” croaked the phoenix. “Only two tries left.”
“You never told us there was a limit on how many tries we could have!” said Esmeralda.
“You never asked,” replied the phoenix. “Rules is rules. Take it or leave it.”
“And if we don’t guess right in the next two goes?” asked Jack.
“Then you can just turn around and go back where you came from, for all I care,” said the phoenix. “I don’t give my secret away to the first simpleton who turns up here with a feather in its paw, you know. I do have my standards.”
“The front side!” exclaimed Esmeralda.
“No!”
“Esmeralda, stop guessing,” hissed Trundle. “Give me a moment to think.”
“I’ll count down from ten,” announced the phoenix. “Ten. Nine. Eight.”
“The outside!” blurted Trundle
. “The outside of a phoenix has the most feathers.”
“Cor-r-r-r-rect,” croaked the bird. He fixed Trundle with a yellowy and bloodshot eye. “You’re a smart one, and that’s a fact! What must be broken before it can be used?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” groaned Esmeralda.
“An egg!” said Trundle with sudden inspiration.
“Quite right,” said the phoenix, nodding approvingly. “Now then. What bird is always with you when you eat?”
“The very spotty chocolate gull,” chimed Ishmael.
“No such creature,” declared the phoenix. “Two more chances!”
“The spindle-shanked purple-plumed double-breasted throat warbler!” yelled Ishmael.
“Stop making birds up, you idiot!” shouted Esmeralda.
“Just trying to help,” said Ishmael.
“What about the ginger-headed, bowlegged—”
“The swallow!” yelled Trundle. “The swallow! The swallow! The swallow!”
“Yes,” replied the phoenix. “And yes, and yes, and yes!”
“Are we done now with the bird riddles?” asked Esmeralda.
“Yes,” said the phoenix. “Yes, you are done with the bird riddles.” He stretched his long neck and his feathers bristled. “And now for the final test. Riddle me this!
“My first is never in pot, but always in pail.
My second is in tool, but never in tail.
My third is in log, but isn’t in leg.
My fourth is in nail, but nowhere in ale.
My last is in yolk, but never in egg.
What am I?”
“Tricky,” said Trundle. He looked at his companions. “I was never very good at this kind of thing.”
“Don’t let us down now, Trundle,” said Esmeralda. “Think!”
“I am thinking,” said Trundle. “It isn’t helping.”
“Well, let’s all think about it, then,” said Jack. “What never goes in a pot, but is always found in a pail?”
“It’s me!” shouted Ishmael. “Me! Me! Me!”
“I don’t think you can be the answer, Ishmael,” said Jack.
“I am, too!” hooted Ishmael, hopping from foot to foot. “Old Ishmael, he knows! Old Ishmael is a strange bird!”
Fire Over Swallowhaven Page 6