The Basilisk's Lair (Nathaniel Fludd, Beastologist, Book 2) Read online

  The Basilisk's Lair (Nathaniel Fludd, Beastologist Book 2)

  R. L. Lafevers

  FOR ADAM,

  WHO NEVER MET A REPTILE HE COULDN'T TAME,

  EVEN, I'M SURE, A BASILISK

  --R. L. L.

  TO A GREAT GURU, JACK PHANEUF

  --K. M.

  Chapter One

  September 1928

  P erched atop his camel, Nathaniel Fludd plodded through the desert sand. He did his best to ignore the merciless sun beating down on him.

  Beastologist, he thought, trying out the title. I am a beastologist. One week ago, he'd been a castoff, unwanted by just about everybody. Now he was a beastologist-in-training. He imagined introducing himself. "Why yes, Nathaniel Fludd here. Pleased to meet you. What's that? Oh, I'm a beastologist." The faces around him would look duly impressed.

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  Aunt Phil's dry voice poked through his daydream. "This might be a good time to check your headings."

  "What?"

  "The headings?" she reminded him. "You're supposed to be navigating the way back to Wadi Rumba."

  Nate looked down at the compass in his hand. The needle pointed to the north, but there was no town where it should be. He shook the compass, hoping maybe that would help.

  "It's not stuck, Nate," Aunt Phil said. "Think. What did I tell you about north?"

  "That the compass needle always points there?" He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice.

  "And what else?"

  Nate sighed. He was tired and his brain felt as fried as a breakfast egg from the heat of the Arabian sun. He wasn't interested in learning how to navigate right now. All he wanted was someplace cool to lie down. And water--an entire tub full of ice cold water.

  But Aunt Phil was relentless. Once she had gotten it in her head that Nate was to learn how to use the compass, that had been it. He was in charge of getting them back to

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  Wadi Rumba. The problem was, he was failing miserably. He scrunched up his brain, trying to remember everything she'd told him. "Oh!" He remembered something. "Are we still above the equator? Because maybe I got that backwards. "

  Before Aunt Phil could answer, Greasle poked her head out of his rucksack. "Why're we stopped here?"

  Aunt Phil glanced at the tiny gremlin. "Just orienting ourselves," she said.

  "Well, hurry up already," Greasle said, but softly, so Aunt Phil wouldn't hear.

  Nate glanced back at the compass. The needle had moved a few degrees to the east. He frowned at Greasle. "Get back in the pack. You're making the needle jump again."

  "Sorry," she muttered. "I likes it better in the pack anyway."

  Nate immediately felt guilty for snapping at her. She was his best friend, after all. His only friend, really. And it wasn't her fault they were off course. At least, he didn't think it was her fault. "Could Greasle's effect on the compass have put us off course?" he asked.

  Aunt Phil shook her head. She didn't look hot or tired

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  at all. "No--as long as the gremlin stays in the pack where she belongs, she has no effect on the compass. We're off course because you didn't allow for the difference between true north and magnetic north."

  "Oh yeah." He'd completely forgotten about that part. Nate looked around. Nothing but miles of sand and scorching heat. His first test at a true Fludd skill and he'd failed.

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  But maybe now Aunt Phil would take over. He looked at her hopefully.

  She shook her head. "No, Nate. We learn best from our mistakes. I'm willing to bet you'll never forget the magnetic north differential again. However, in the interest of time, I will tell you that you need to adjust by four degrees to the east."

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  Nate grit his teeth, then set the outside ring on the compass four degrees to the east. As he looked up to reorient himself, he saw a cloud of dust coming toward them. "Look," he said.

  Aunt Phil lifted the binoculars from around her neck. "Riders," she said after a moment. "Looking for us, it seems."

  "How can you tell that?" he asked. Her skills never ceased to amaze him.

  She lowered the binoculars and smiled. "Because they're waving. Come on. Let's ride out to meet them. They weren't scheduled to come looking for us for another two days."

  "Then why are they here?"

  "That's what I want to find out," she said. "Something must have come up."

  Nate's heart sank at the cheerful oh good, an exciting new disaster tone in his aunt's voice. It could mean only one thing: trouble.

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  Chapter Two

  When the men reached them, Nate saw one was waving a piece of paper in his hand.

  "Omar, what brings you out here?" Aunt Phil asked.

  Omar answered in breathless Arabic, then thrust the paper at Aunt Phil. "A telegram?" She frowned, then began to read aloud:

  "For Phil Fludd. STOP. Urgent. STOP. Need help. STOP. Basilisk has escaped. STOP. Come to Bamako at once. STOP. Will await your arrival. STOP."

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  By the time she was done, Aunt Phil's tan face had paled. Since she was normally fearless, Nate knew this was a bad sign. "What's a basilisk?" he asked in a small voice.

  "The king of serpents," she said shortly. She grew quiet after that, staring at the telegram for a few more moments, thinking. "Well, you're in luck," she finally said. "Your compass lesson is over. We've no time to waste. We must get back to Wadi Rumba at once." With that, she urged her camel into a gallop.

  Nate sighed and looked down at his own camel. "I think that means we're supposed to run, too," he explained to Shabiib.

  Shabiib gave him a sly smile.

  "Hut hut hut," Nate said halfheartedly.

  Shabiib did nothing.

  Nate looked up to where Aunt Phil and the messengers had disappeared in a cloud of dust. "Hut hut hut, " he repeated, this time applying his heels to the camel's flanks. The camel began walking, but it was nowhere near a gallop. At this pace they'd catch up to Aunt Phil sometime next week.

  Nate's rucksack rustled behind him, and then the camel

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  gave a surprised snort and bolted forward. It was all Nate could do to hang on and keep his seat. When he was sure he wouldn't fall off, he risked a look behind him.

  Greasle's little batlike face was smiling as she held up her two pincer fingers. "I didn't want to get left out here because of a stupid camel," she said. "I want back on me plane."

  ***

  Shabiib never did catch up with the others, but Nate was able to follow their thick dust cloud. They reached Wadi Rumba in less than an hour, so they hadn't been too far off course. Heartened by this, Nate steered Shabiib to the camel pen. After he dismounted, he grabbed his rucksack and went to find Aunt Phil.

  She had already set up one of the tents as a command post. He found her there, barking out orders. "Tell them it needs to be in Cairo by the day after tomorrow. No later!"

  Before Nate could even ask what it was, another man rushed into the tent. "You wish to send a telegram?"

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  "Yes. To the British Mail Service in Cairo. Will arrive late tomorrow afternoon. STOP. Will need 450 gallons of fuel. STOP. Will take off day after that. STOP.' That's all," she said. The man nodded and scurried away.

  "Ah, Nate. There you are." Aunt Phil motioned him over to the table where she had a large map laid out. "The basilisk lives in a remote area of the Sudan. Unfortunately, there are no planes or refueling facilities in West Africa. Our only chance to load up on fuel will be here." She placed her finger on a tiny dot. "The British airmail facility just outside Ca
iro should be able to supply us with all we need. We can make it from Cairo to Bamako in one run without refueling, but just barely. And we'll have to carry enough fuel in the cargo hold for our return trip." She glanced outside the tent opening. "I'm tempted to leave tonight, except they won't have our supplies ready. Besides, flying at night is a bit dicey. Why don't you get some sleep while I finish seeing to the arrangements?"

  "Can you tell me about the basilisk?" Nate asked.

  "I've too much to do just now," she said, not meeting his eye. She busied herself rolling up the map, stuffed it into a pack, and left the tent without another word.

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  [Image: Nate and Aunt Phil.]

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  As Nate plopped down onto one of the cushions, Greasle crawled out of his rucksack. "Is she gone?" the little gremlin asked, stretching her monkeylike body.

  "You should stop worrying," Nate said. "I don't think she dislikes you quite so much anymore. She's beginning to see how useful you can be." Aunt Phil thought gremlins were pests, like rats or cockroaches. She hadn't been happy when Nate had first adopted Greasle as his pet.

  Greasle snorted but looked pleased as well. "Wonder why she won't tell you about the basilick. Think she's hiding something?" she asked.

  "A basil isk ," Nate corrected, shifting uneasily on his cushion. "I don't think she's hiding anything." But the truth was, he had been wondering the exact same thing.

  "Well, we doesn't have to waits for her, do we? Let's have a look."

  Before Nate could protest, Greasle scampered over to one of Aunt Phil's saddlebags. Her nimble fingers closed around The Book of Beasts. It was bigger than she was, and she strained and tugged, trying to pull it out. "I could use some help here," she said.

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  "I'm not sure we should be doing this," Nate said.

  "Course we should. You're a beastologist, ain't you? You don't needs no permission to look at a dumb old book. Or are you afraid?" Greasle had managed to work the book free by this time. It teetered on the edge of the pack, then tipped over, squashing her flat under its heavy weight. "Help!" she squeaked.

  Nate quickly snatched up the book.

  "Took you long enough," she sniffed, brushing herself off. "Now, let's look up the basil lick."

  "Basilisk, " Nate corrected, his fingers itching to open the book.

  "Go on," Greasle urged.

  Nate settled himself back down on the cushion and opened the book to B. Basilisk, the first entry.

  Born from a cockerel egg and hatched by a serpent during the days of Sirius (the dog star), the basilisk is the most venomous creature on earth, Its gage can strike a man or beast dead at twenty paces, Its breath is so poisonous that it causes trees and shrubs to wither and die on contact, It can make birds fall lifeless from the sky merely by spitting its venom into the air,

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  Greasle squealed in dismay and huddled closer to Nate.

  This snakelike creature is not more than twenty fingers long, but do not be fooled by its small size, It has the head and legs of a rooster, and wings, too-only not of feathers, but of reptilian skin. His tongue is forked, and the tail ends in an arrow point, like many poisoned things, he is brilliantly colored; his scales flitter like rubies, emeralds, and sapphires in the sunlight,

  [Image: The book: Basilisk.]

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  Nate studied the picture on the facing page. It was ugly, yet strangely beautiful, too. The beast had wicked-looking spines along its back, and its thick tail coiled round and round, like a snake, ending in a bright red point. It was covered in scales, not feathers, and had a cock's comb atop its head and a sharp yellow beak. Below the drawing, a separate note was handwritten in the margin.

  "Basilisk's venom is considered highly valuable by those who practice the dark arts, as it is an undetectable poison. The creature's scales and fangs also have great value."

  Nate stopped reading and closed the book. His hands trembled as he stuffed it back into Aunt Phil's saddlebag. No wonder she hadn't wanted to tell him about the basilisk! All his excitement at being a beastologist fled, leaving a cold lump of fear in its place.

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  Chapter Three

  N ate slept horribly. He'd dreamed he was being chased by a serpentlike bird that kept spitting poison at him. He was actually glad when Aunt Phil woke him and bundled him into the plane. They took off just as the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon.

  The coolness of the morning quickly wore off and the plane became unbearably hot. Nate envied Greasle, who spent the whole trip curled up in his rucksack, fast asleep.

  The landing in Cairo was the first time Nate had ever landed on a real airstrip, so it was much smoother than

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  their other landings. He was surprised, however, by the facilities. Even though it was near a big city, the mail service was nothing but a cluster of dusty tents and a large metal shack. One other plane sat off to the side. As he and Aunt Phil climbed out of their cockpit, a young man dressed in khakis hurried forward.

  "Dr. Fludd? I'm James Pickle. The British Mail Service has assigned me to assist you during your layover here in Cairo."

  "What kind of name is Pickle, I'd like to know?" Greasle whispered in Nate's ear. He thought that was funny coming from someone named after grease.

  "You mean you're here to see I don't upset the mail-service routine," Aunt Phil corrected.

  "Not at all, Dr. Fludd." Mr. Pickle practically bowed in his eagerness to please. "Just to see that all your arrangements go smoothly and you find everything you need. In fact, we've gathered all the fuel you've requested. It's over here in the small hangar, if you'd like to come see for yourself."

  "Very well. Lead the way."

  As Mr. Pickle began marching toward the hangar, Aunt Phil lagged behind, letting Nate catch up to her.

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  "You keep that gremlin out of sight, Nate. The British Mail Service will never forgive me if I bring a gremlin into their midst and allow it to start mucking up their planes."

  "How do they even know about gremlins?" Nate asked.

  "Because airplane pilots were the ones who discovered them. And I'm whom they call to get rid of these pests." She gave Greasle a pointed glare, then hurried to catch up to Mr. Pickle.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon inspecting fuel cans, supervising their loading into the fuselage, and pouring over an aeronautical map. It was the oddest map Nate had ever seen. Long and narrow, it was mounted on a pair of scrolls set in a wooden box with a compass at the top. "I'll keep this in my lap as we fly," Aunt Phil explained. "But I'll need your help as well. See those lines?"

  Nate stared at the series of thin green lines she was pointing to. "Yes."

  "Those are navigating furrows that have been plowed in the sand. It can be tricky to fly over featureless desert, so those furrows will help us navigate. We'll need to keep them in our sights at all times as we cross the Sahara. That will be your job."

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  When the sun finally set, Aunt Phil sent Nate to the small tent that had been assigned to them. It was hot and stuffy inside. Someone had left a plate of sandwiches for their dinner. Even though they were covered with wax paper, the sandwiches were dried out and stale. But they were better than nothing, Nate thought. And at least they were something he recognized.

  After eating one of the sandwiches, he broke the second one into pieces for Greasle, who picked at it. With nothing else left to do, he crawled onto one of the cots. He was tired of sleeping on the ground and on strange, lumpy cots. Even the unfamiliar bed back at Aunt Phil's house would have been better than this. But what he really and truly wished for was his very own bed in his very own house. He wondered if he would ever see it again.

  ***

  Nate awoke to the sound of Aunt Phil packing up her things. He blinked twice, then rubbed his eyes and sat up, nearly tumbling Greasle to the floor.

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  "Watch it!" she cried, clinging to the
blanket for dear life.

  "Sorry." He scooped her back up and set her carefully on the cot. "Morning," he said to Aunt Phil.

  "Morning, Nate. I repacked your things while you were sleeping. Added a few supplies I thought you'd need."

  "Thanks." He jumped off the cot and stuffed his feet into his shoes. During the night, he had come up with a plan. Since this basilisk was such a dangerous beast, Nate knew he would only get in Aunt Phil's way. Clearly it would be best if he caught a mail plane back to England and waited for her there. Nate couldn't wait to suggest his plan, but before he could say anything, there was a tapping at the tent door.

  It was Mr. Pickle, inviting them to the mess tent for one last hot breakfast.

  "I'm afraid I've too much to do," Aunt Phil told him. "But if you would take Nate, I'm sure he would appreciate a hot meal."

  Nate could tell that Mr. Pickle wanted to argue, but his desire to please won out in the end. "Very well, Dr. Fludd. Nathaniel? This way, if you please."

  Nate grabbed his rucksack and followed Mr. Pickle to a

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  wide canvas tent. Like everything else, it was covered with a thick layer of reddish sand. Inside, a large burly man was slinging runny-looking eggs onto tin plates. Nate took one and followed Mr. Pickle to an empty table.

  Nate's stomach was so full of excitement for his new plan that there wasn't any room for breakfast. He picked at his eggs and tried to work up his courage. When Mr. Pickle was almost finished with his breakfast, Nate finally asked, "Do you know where I can make arrangements for a flight back to England?"