Flight of the Phoenix

  The next morning, they were back in the plane and on their way before the sun had risen. Things quickly returned to the bone-rattling monotony of the day before. Nate hunched down to stay as warm as possible.

  Some time later, Aunt Phil twisted around in her seat. “Something’s wrong with the propeller,” she called back to him. “I think some debris has gotten tangled up in it. We need to remove whatever it is before the prop stops altogether.”

  Nate’s chest suddenly felt hollow.

  “Feel like stretching your legs?” she yelled.

  Before Nate could ask what that had to do with the propeller, she shoved a piece of rope at him. “Here. Slip this around your waist.”

  Wrenching around in the cramped seat, Nate did as he was told.

  “There,” Aunt Phil yelled when he had it secure. “Now take these and you’re all set.” She thrust a pair of leather gloves at him. She kept talking as he tugged them on. “I’ll slow her down so you can climb out onto the wing and make your way to the propeller. But if I have to slow down too much, we’ll stall. So be quick.”

  Nate looked at her in disbelief. Surely she didn’t mean for him to—

  “Hurry, Nate! I don’t want the prop to give up altogether! Then we’ll stall for sure.”

  Did she mean for him to crawl out onto the nose of the plane to fix the problem? He felt a sharp yank at the rope around his waist. “Get moving!”

  Apparently, she did. Very glad for the rope that anchored him to the plane, Nate stood up. Struggling to keep his balance, he crawled out of the cockpit and lowered his feet over the side until they touched the wing. Gripping the side of the plane for dear life, he shuffled his feet along the wing, inching closer to the propeller. The plane bucked and dipped, adjusting to his shifting weight. Even with the slower speed, the wind screamed past him, tugging at his shirt, his helmet, his body, trying to dislodge him from his wobbly perch. His heart hammering in his chest, Nate kept his eyes glued to the nose of the plane and tried not to think about how far down the ground was.

  His body hugged the side of the plane as he scooched his way forward. When he passed Aunt Phil in her cockpit, she gave him a cheerful thumbs-up sign.

  All too soon, he ran out of wing. He shifted his grip to the struts that held the wing to the plane. Searching for a foothold among the wires and fastenings, he pushed himself atop the nose of the plane.

  He sat there for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He tried to peer down into the propeller but had to jerk his nose back to keep it from being whacked off by the blades. They were moving so fast, he couldn’t see a thing.

  Clinging to the searchlight mount, he put his hand down to where the propeller met the nose of the plane. He groped cautiously, feeling for something that might be causing the problem.

  There was a sharp pinch as his glove got caught in the propeller gear. Alarmed, he yanked his hand back. As he did, something flew out from behind the propeller into midair. It happened so fast, Nate wasn’t able to get a good look at it before it disappeared far below.

  But the propeller stopped lagging. Nate realized he had somehow managed to fix the problem. Before he could congratulate himself, there was a flurry of movement. With a howl, a small shape launched itself from the propeller toward Nate’s face.

  Chapter Six

  THE CREATURE—A BAT?—LATCHED ON TO NATE and began pounding and scratching at his head. Nate tucked his chin under and tried to protect his face. Gripping the nose of the plane hard with both knees, he let go with one hand and plucked the thing from his head. It dangled in front of his face, swiping and kicking.

  What was it?

  It was about the size of a kitten but sort of human shaped. It was covered with engine oil and gear grease. Large pointed ears stuck out from black hair. It was hard to tell, but Nate thought it might be a girl thing . . . whatever it was. After a second, Nate realized the squeaking sounds it was making were actually words.

  “That was me brother, you big oaf! What’d you go and do that for?”

  The plane dipped, and Nate flattened himself to keep from losing his balance. He had to get back to the cockpit. Fast. But what to do with the creature? Should he just toss it overboard? That might not be such a good idea. Aunt Phil was a beastologist, after all. What if he’d just caught his first beast?

  Heartened by this thought—and the fact that it wasn’t a bat—Nate began scooting backwards, inch by terrifying inch. In one hand, he kept the small creature out in front of him, well clear of its flying feet and fists. The other hand clutched desperately to the struts as his feet poked around, looking for the firm surface of the wing. When his feet finally connected, he let out a long, shaky breath, then began the slow, terrifying process of making his way back.

  He was drenched in sweat by the time he got back to the cockpit and tumbled clumsily into his seat.

  “Hey! Watch what yer doing there, you big dolt.”

  “Oops. Sorry.” Nate pulled the creature out from under him.

  “Good job, Nate!” Aunt Phil’s voice came through the wind noise. “You fixed it.”

  Nate leaned forward and held the creature aloft. “Look what I found up there. There were two of them, but one fell before I could catch it.”

  Aunt Phil wrinkled her face in distaste. “Gremlins. Nasty things. Always trying to muck up my plane. You can just toss it over the side. They’re pests, really.”

  Nate looked down into the scrunched-up, ugly little face. Throw it overboard?

  The gremlin put her hands together. “Please don’t toss me over. Please. I’ll be good. I promise. I won’t drink any fuel or play with the prop again. Just don’t throw me over. Without me brother, I’m all alone in the world.” Her eyes grew big and wide as she glanced over the side of the plane.

  Nate felt a sharp pang of guilt. He knew all about being alone in the world. He had no idea what would happen to him if Aunt Phil hadn’t taken him in. “I’m sorry about your brother,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “Oh, he won’t die. He’ll land just fine. That’s why we got such big feet, see?” She held hers up for him to inspect. They were large—like rabbits’ feet. “He’ll just have to find himself another plane. That’s all.” She sniffed.

  Nate turned back to Aunt Phil. “Do I have to throw her over? Can’t I just keep her until we land, then let her go?”

  Aunt Phil shrugged. “I’m telling you, they’re nothing but pests. But if you want, you can shove it into your rucksack until we land. I’ll deal with it then.”

  Nate turned back to the gremlin. “Did you hear that? It’s into the rucksack if you want to stay.”

  The gremlin nodded, then stuck out her tiny hand.

  Nate hesitated, then put his finger out, hoping she wouldn’t bite it.

  She shook his finger solemnly. “Greasle’s me name. My brother back there was Oiliver.”

  “And I’m Nate. Again, I’m sorry about your brother.” With his free hand, he opened the rucksack at his feet. “In you go,” he said.

  Greasle sent him a cheerful wave before she disappeared into the pack.

  Hours later, Aunt Phil swiveled around in her seat again. “There it is!”

  “There’s what?” he yelled back.

  “Where we’re going.”

  Nate felt the plane shift directions and begin its descent. He peered down to the ground below. Far, far below. He could see nothing but sand everywhere he looked.

  Aunt Phil brought the plane lower. He could make out a ribbon of road that was a little darker than the sand. At one end was a cluster of tents and a few squat buildings.

  “Hang on!” Aunt Phil yelled. Nate clutched the sides of the plane and shut his eyes, then jerked them open again. Better to see, he decided.

  He could make out people now. Two men in white robes and turbans were waving small flags at Aunt Phil. She shifted the plane a bit to the left, then dropped the nose.

  Nate felt dizzy and sick as the ground rushed up. When
the plane landed with a bone-jarring thud, his head snapped back and he bit his tongue. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

  The whole plane shuddered, and a fountain of sand flew up behind them. Aunt Phil cut the motor and they bounced and jiggled their way to a stop. “That’s why they call it a platypus,” she said. “A regular plane could never have landed in the sand that easily. Welcome to Arabia, Nate.”

  That was easy? Nate thought.

  The tents that had looked small from the air were actually quite large and sat next to a pen holding a dozen camels. A group of men in billowing white robes and head cloths rushed over to greet them. One of them set a step stool by the plane so Aunt Phil could climb out. When she was down, she motioned to Nate. He grabbed his pack and scrambled over the edge.

  The leader folded his hands and gave a small bow. “Greetings, Dr. Fludd. We have everything ready for you, as you requested.”

  “Thank you, Hakim.” Then she began talking to him in an unfamiliar language. Arabian, Nate guessed, since they were in Arabia. When she was done talking, she clamped her hand on to Nate’s shoulder and steered him to one of the tents. “We’re going to catch a bit of sleep in here until the sun goes down. Then the real adventure will begin,” she said with a wink.

  Nate gawped at her. He’d had quite enough adventure already, thank you. He wasn’t sure he’d survive any more.

  Chapter Seven

  WHEN NATE AWOKE, he found Greasle sitting on his chest, staring at him. Startled, he sat up suddenly and she tumbled to the ground.

  “Ow. What’d you go and do that for?” she asked, rubbing her caboose.

  “Didn’t mean to,” Nate muttered. He swung his legs off the cot and rubbed the sand from his eyes. It was cooler than before, he noticed. And darker. He looked around for Aunt Phil.

  “She’s out talking to those men,” Greasle told him. “You got any food on you? ’Cause there was nothing in that pack of yours.”

  Nate pointed to a platter on a table. She studied it for a moment, then snagged a small brown fruit and took a nibble. She made a face. “I shouldn’t have left the plane.”

  “But that was the agreement,” Nate said. “You have to stay in the pack. Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “Aunt Phil said she’d deal with you once we landed.”

  “No!” Greasle squeaked. “I’ll be good.” She clambered up Nate’s leg to his knee and began plucking at his sleeve. “I’ll stay in the pack, nice and quiet-like.”

  “What do you think she’d do to you?” he asked.

  Greasle shrugged. “Don’t know. Never been caught before.”

  “Well, just stay quiet in the pack and we’ll see what happens. Sometimes grownups forget stuff they’ve said.”

  The little gremlin nodded and scampered into the rucksack. Nate hauled it over his shoulder and went to find Aunt Phil.

  She was outside, arguing with someone. They were standing in front of two camels piled high with supplies. As Nate approached, the man spoke rapidly, shook his head, then stormed away.

  “Is something wrong?” Nate asked.

  “There you are. Had a good nap, did you?” Aunt Phil ignored his question.

  “Er, yes. What did that man want?”

  She sighed. “He was supposed to come with us as a guide, but he backed out. It seems some Bedouin have been sighted in the area and he doesn’t want to risk it.”

  “What are Bedouin?”

  “Nomads. They can be a bit territorial.”

  It sounded to Nate as if the guide was being smart. “Maybe he’s right? Maybe it isn’t worth the risk?”

  “Nonsense. We’ll be fine.”

  “But what will we do for a guide?”

  “Why, I’ll guide us, of course.” Aunt Phil patted one of the large leather bags hanging from one of the camels’ saddles. “I’ve got a Fludd family map and my compass. We’ll be fine. Now climb aboard,” she said. “The sun is setting and it’s cool enough to get started. We’ll travel most of the night and sleep during the heat of the day.” Aunt Phil cupped her hands for Nate to step into.

  He looked from her hands up to the saddle high on top of the camel. “We really have to ride those?”

  “Absolutely. These ships of the desert are much heartier for traveling under these conditions. They can go for five whole days without water in the heat of summer, fifty days in winter. Now, do hurry up, Nate. We’ve a long journey ahead of us and a schedule to keep.”

  Nate bit back a sigh, clutched a leather strap hanging from the saddle, and placed his foot into Aunt Phil’s hands. With a mighty heave, she sent him flying up. He grabbed hold of the saddle horn and scrambled into the saddle.

  Aunt Phil gave a firm nod, then went over to mount her camel from a stool.

  As Nate sat waiting, his camel turned his long neck around to stare at him. The camel had big liquid brown eyes with long lashes. He was chewing something, his lips working up and down and all around. He did not look happy to have someone on his back. “Nice camel,” Nate said, patting the creature’s dusty, hairy neck. “Good camel.”

  The camel gave one last chew, then opened his lips and spit a thick stream of camel saliva at Nate. Nate stared in disgust at the nasty glob plastered to his chest.

  “His name is Shabiib,” Aunt Phil said from atop her own camel. “You need to show him who’s boss.” She grabbed her reins and slapped them against her camel’s back. “Hut hut hut!” she cried. Her camel launched into a fast trot.

  Nate grabbed his reins and slapped them like Aunt Phil had done. “Hut hut hut!” he cried.

  Shabiib turned back around to stare at him, his mobile lips working again. “Don’t even think about it!” Nate said. “Hut hut hut!” he cried again, this time kicking his heels against the camel’s flanks.

  Still nothing. He glanced at Aunt Phil, who was far ahead now. Suddenly, there was a loud thwack as one of the men gave Shabiib a swat.

  The camel launched forward. Nate’s teeth crashed together as he slapped down on the camel’s back. From inside the pack, Greasle squealed. And if he hadn’t been so busy trying to stay on top of the camel, Nate would have checked on her. As it was, all he could do was hang on tightly while excitement and nerves warred in his belly. This was, after all, his last chance to prove he was up to the task of being a Fludd. He had failed his parents. He couldn’t risk failing Aunt Phil.

  Chapter Eight

  NATE STRUGGLED WITH SHABIIB as the village quickly disappeared from sight and the last orange rays of the sun shimmered over the endless ocean of sand. It took him a while to learn to relax his body into the rhythm of the camel’s stride. The stars had come out by the time Nate finally mastered it. With this small success under his belt, he grew a bit bold. “Aunt Phil?”

  “Yes, Nate?”

  “You said you’d explain about my parents’ writing letters,” he reminded her.

  “Of course.” She fell quiet a moment before asking, “What do you know about Fludd family history?”

  Nate shrugged. “Not much. Only that Fludds have always been explorers and adventurers.” And he was very much not an adventurer, he thought but didn’t say out loud.

  “The first Fludd of record, a Sir Mungo Fludd, became obsessed with Marco Polo’s account of his travels to the Orient,” Aunt Phil began. “He decided to retrace the journey for himself, only this time with surveyors and cartographers so they could produce a map of the world.”

  Nate recalled the map on the wall in his room. It had been signed by Sir Mungo Fludd.

  “After many years of exploration, he returned and completed the map. He called it The Geographica, A Map of the World. However, he knew that he’d seen only a small portion of what the world had to offer. So Sir Mungo had eight sons, one for each cardinal and ordinal point on the compass. When they were grown, he sent them all off in eight different directions. They had orders to explore and survey the world, then report back to him so they could update The Geographica. Thus the Age of Exploration had begun.
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  “After many years, Sir Mungo’s seven sons returned, and he compiled the most complete map of all time.”

  “But what happened to the eighth Fludd? You said there were eight brothers.”

  Aunt Phil’s face grew dark. “We don’t speak of him. Every family has its black sheep, and he’s ours.”

  Nate wanted to ask more about him, but Aunt Phil started talking again.

  “Of course, the Fludds saw other things on their travels. New races of man. Strange plants never seen before, and all manner of fearsome beasts. Flavius Fludd, Sir Mungo’s great-grandson, began studying these beasts and recorded all his knowledge in The Book of Beasts.”

  “For beastologists?”

  “Ah, but there weren’t any beastologists yet, Nate.” Her face grew troubled. “Now that all sorts of explorers were traveling to these exotic places, they too had discovered the beasts. But being idiots, they hunted and captured the rare creatures until soon there were very few left. After we Fludds discovered the disaster with the dodos, Honorius Fludd declared that from then on, one Fludd in every generation had to dedicate him- or herself to protecting and caring for these beasts. That’s when the science of beastology was born.”

  Nate was quiet for a moment as he absorbed all this. Then he cleared his throat. “But what does that have to do with my parents’ letters?” he asked in a very small voice.

  Aunt Phil laughed. “Sorry. That was rather the long way about. My point was, for centuries, Fludds have traveled. And for centuries, we have recorded our travels in letters so as to report to those back home. Being an explorer is dangerous work, and we’ve always known that some of us won’t return. Not wanting all our work to be lost, we write letters to record our findings. It’s as much a part of being a Fludd as a love of exploration. That’s why I’m so sure your parents wrote you letters. You’re certain you didn’t receive any?”