David and the Phoenix

A tale of friendship between two different species—a boy and a mythical bird.

Book Excerpt:

All the way there David had saved this moment for himself, struggling not to

peek until the proper time came. When the car finally stopped, the rest of them

got out stiffly and went into the new house. But David walked slowly into the

back yard with his eyes fixed on the ground. For a whole minute he stood there,

not daring to look up. Then he took a deep breath, clenched his hands tightly,

and lifted his head.

There it was!—as Dad had described it, but infinitely more grand. It swept

upward from the valley floor, beautifully shaped and soaring, so tall that its

misty blue peak could surely talk face to face with the stars. To David, who had

never seen a mountain before, the sight was almost too much to bear. He felt so

tight and shivery inside that he didn't know whether he wanted to laugh, or cry,

or both. And the really wonderful thing about the mountain was the way it

looked at him. He was certain that it was smiling at him, like an old friend who

had been waiting for years to see him again. And when he closed his eyes, he

seemed to hear a voice which whispered, "Come along, then, and climb."

It would be so easy to go! The back yard was hedged in (with part of the hedge

growing right across the toes of the mountain), but there was a hole in the privet

large enough to crawl through. And just beyond the hedge the mountainside

awaited him, going up and up in one smooth sweep until the green and tawny

faded into hazy heights of rock. It was waiting for him. "Come and climb," it

whispered, "come and climb."

But there was a great deal to do first. They were going to move into the new

house. The moving van was standing out in front, the car must be unloaded.

David would be needed to carry things. Regretfully, he waved his hand at the

peak and whispered, "It shouldn't take long—I'll be back as soon as I can." Then

he went around to the front door to see what could be done about speeding

things up.

Inside, everything was in confusion. Dad was pushing chairs and tables around

in an aimless way. Mother was saying, "They'll all have to go out again; we

forgot to put down the rug first." Aunt Amy was making short dashes between

the kitchen and the dining room, muttering to herself. And Beckie was roaring in

her crib because it was time for her bottle. David asked, "Can I do anything?"—

hoping that the answer would be no.

"C'mere," Aunt Amy said, grabbing him by the arm. "Help me look for that

ironing board."

When the ironing board was finally located, Mother had something for him to

do. And when he was finished with that, Dad called for his help. So the

afternoon wore on without letup—and also without any signs of progress in their

moving. When David finally got a chance to sneak out for a breathing spell, he

felt his heart sink. Somehow, in all the rush and confusion, the afternoon had

disappeared. Already the evening sun was throwing shadows across the side of

the mountain and touching its peak with a ruddy blaze. It was too late now. He

would have to wait until morning before he could climb.

As he gazed up miserably at the glowing summit, he thought he saw a tiny speck

soar out from it in a brief circle. Was it a bird of some sort, or just one of those

dots that swim before your eyes when you stare too long at the sky? It almost

seemed like the mountain waving its hand, as if to say that it was quite all right

for him to wait until morning. He felt better then, and returned more cheerfully

to the moving.

It was long after dark before the moving van drove away. Beckie crooned

happily over her bottle, and the rest of them gathered in the kitchen for a late

supper of sandwiches and canned soup. But David could not eat until he had

found the courage to ask one question:

"May I climb the mountain tomorrow?"