The Basilisk's Lair Page 3

  “Ready, now,” Aunt Phil said.

  “What exactly am I supposed to do?” Nate asked, trying not to panic.

  “Just poke at them a bit and try to get them to stay back.”

  He stared at the spindly pole in his hand, then at the enormous crocodile in front of him. Is she kidding?

  There was a quiet sound of metal sliding against metal behind him.

  “Stop!” Aunt Phil yelled.

  Jean-Claude had picked up his rifle again.

  “If you touch that one more time, I will strike you.” She brandished her pole at him. “Do you understand?”

  “Sacre bleu,” he muttered, placing the rifle back on the floor of the boat.

  “Your job is to steer us out of here as quickly as possible. Got it?”

  “Got it,” he said. He started to reach for his flask, stopping when an ear-pounding bellow filled the air and the lead croc launched himself at their small boat.

  Chapter Seven

  “SHOO!” AUNT PHIL SAID, jabbing her pole at the crocodile. “Shoo!”

  Kwami studied her for a moment, then copied her movement. “Shoo!” he repeated, poking at the two crocs that were blocking the boat.

  Nate hoped Aunt Phil knew what she was doing. He gripped his pole tighter and thrust it toward the nearest crocodile, surprised when it connected solidly with the animal’s snout. “Shoo!” he said.

  Startled by the jab, the croc paused, giving the boat a little room to maneuver by. After a few more jabs, the animals became fed up and backed away from the boat.

  “It worked!” Nate said as he watched the crocodiles eye them warily.

  “Of course it worked,” Aunt Phil said, wiping her brow.

  “Of course it worked,” Jean-Claude mimicked in a tiny singsong voice. Nate shot him an annoyed glance, freezing when he saw Greasle crouched at his feet, her mouth open to catch the oil leaking from the small motor.

  Nate dropped his pole and snatched Greasle away from the engine before Aunt Phil could see. “Stop it,” he hissed, giving her a tiny shake.

  Her ears drooped. “But I was just catching the drips, see? I wasn’t taking any that was needed. It’s not my fault the wee engine leaks.”

  Nate glanced over at Aunt Phil, but she was too busy talking to Kwami to have seen. “It’s back into the pack for you,” he told her firmly.

  “Nate,” Aunt Phil said just then, startling him. “Come here. And bring your rucksack.”

  Nate did as she’d said.

  “It seems to me it would be helpful if you understood the nature of the sacred contract that binds the Dhughani, the Fludds, and basilisks together. Now, sit close, because I don’t want Jean-Claude to learn of the basilisk or get any whiff of its location. I don’t trust that man and his gun.”

  Nate settled himself on the bottom of the canoe and hoped he’d learn something reassuring.

  “In the fifteenth century, one of Mungo Fludd’s sons, Isidore, attended Prince Henry of Portugal’s School of Navigation. Once he’d completed his studies, he hired himself aboard a ship. The ship had been ordered by Prince Henry to cross the Sea of Darkness—a rough, mysterious patch of ocean along the coast of Africa. It was said to contain strange beasts and untold dangers. Rumor had it that no men had ever sailed through it and survived. But Isidore’s ship did. Not only that, they reached a trading post at the mouth of the Gambia River. Isidore decided to leave the ship and explore the African continent for a while. He traveled up the Gambia until he found the Niger River, the first European to do so. He even made it to the fabled land of Timbuktu, where he met Sunni Ali, the king of the Songhay Empire.

  “At first, they were not happy to see this stranger in their land. But Sunni Ali was cunning and offered Isidore a deal. If Isidore could help them solve a particular problem, not only would he let Isidore live, but he and his family would be welcome by the Songhay people for all eternity.

  “The problem turned out to be a basilisk, and Isidore was able to help them.”

  “Was it the same basilisk we’re going after?” Nate asked.

  “No, Nate. There have been many basilisks over the centuries. When Isidore Fludd returned to Europe two years later, his tales of African discovery became legend. However, the scribe who copied his diaries made an error in translation. That error sent generations of explorers to Timbuktu in search of a ‘brilliant treasure,’ when, in fact, Isidore had written of a ‘shimmering wonder’ of the African world whose brilliance scarred a man’s eyes. That was, of course, the basilisk.

  “More than a hundred years later, Isidore’s great-grandson, Florian Fludd, returned to the Songhay Empire in his role as a beastologist. No one had seen a basilisk in all that time, and Florian wanted to follow up the initial contact. The Songhay people were true to their promise and welcomed him warmly. During his visit, the Songhay Empire was overrun by Moroccans bearing guns—something the Songhay had no defense against—the empire began to crumble. However, with Florian’s help, a small group of the Songhay retreated to these cliffs and holed up there. With the cliffs at their back and the basilisks’ greatly feared powers, they were safe from attack. Because the basilisk helped protect them from marauders, the Songhay entered into a sacred contract with the beast—they would take care of it and bring it offerings when there were no marauders for it to eat.

  “Which is how the Dhughani, descendants of the original Songhay Empire, have come to care for the basilisks all these centuries.”

  The sun had begun to set by the time Aunt Phil finished her story. Nate spent the last hour of daylight sketching until Jean-Claude steered the boat toward the shore. Kwami used his pole to pull them all the way up on the bank so they wouldn’t float away during the night. Dinner was beans, straight out of the tin, and then they all spread out on the floor of the boat under thin blankets.

  Nate was exhausted and thought sleep would come easily—that was before mosquitoes the size of grasshoppers came out in droves. They swarmed around his head, sounding for all the world like Aunt Phil’s plane.

  Finally, in desperation, he called Greasle over. “Can you do something about these things?” he asked, swatting one away from his face.

  She shrugged, and Nate could see she was still pouting from her earlier scolding. He glanced over at the others, who all seemed to be sleeping soundly. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll let you go lick all the oil drips—but only the drips—if you’ll come back here and swat these mosquitoes away while I sleep.”

  Greasle’s little face brightened. “You means it?”

  “Yes,” Nate said. He waited while she scampered over and licked up every last drip of oil from the engine. Then she hurried back over and settled herself near Nate’s head. Hoping to finally catch a bit of sleep, Nate closed his eyes. He could still hear the droning of the mosquitoes, but it was fainter as Greasle swatted them away from his head. Then, suddenly, the droning stopped.

  Nate opened his eyes to find Greasle chewing. “Not bad,” she told him. She reached up and snatched another one out of the air. With a gleam in her eye, she dipped the captured mosquito into a newly formed drop of oil on the motor, then took a bite. “But even better with oil.”

  Shuddering in disgust, Nate pulled the blanket up over his head and stuffed his fingers into his ears.

  Chapter Eight

  THE NEXT MORNING, Nate noticed that the river captain was sporting two large mosquito bites on his face and neck. Aunt Phil also had a couple. Everyone except him, it seemed. He made sure to give Greasle a big chunk of his breakfast for helping him.

  They hadn’t been under way for more than half an hour when the engine coughed and spluttered to a stop. Jean-Claude muttered something under his breath as he went to see what the problem was.

  A moment later, Jean-Claude threw down the rag he was holding in his hand. “Sacre bleu! The engine leaks. She is out of oil.”

  Kwami set his pole down and inched toward the back of the boat, where he and Jean-Claude began talkin
g rapidly.

  Aunt Phil gave Nate a hard, searching look and motioned him over. Nate gulped, then got to his feet and made his way to where she was sitting. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Nathaniel?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Something about your gremlin getting at the engine, perhaps?”

  Guilt flooded Nate’s whole body. “I told her she could lick the drips, but that’s all.”

  Aunt Phil put her hands on her hips. “How do you know she didn’t create the leak in the first place? That’s what gremlins do—destroy engines.”

  “B-because she promised she wouldn’t,” Nate said. He felt a movement at his feet and saw Greasle down there, staring up at Aunt Phil.

  “I didn’t break no engine,” she said in her tiny voice. “I keeps my promises.”

  Aunt Phil sniffed. “So say you. Nate, put her in your rucksack and see that she does not come out again. I’ll decide what to do about her later.”

  His shoulders slumping, Nate scooped up Greasle. “Sorry,” he whispered, then slipped her into the rucksack and buckled the straps shut.

  “Well, we are stuck,” Jean-Claude announced.

  “Surely you have some extra oil on the boat?” Aunt Phil asked.

  “Non, we do not have some extra oil on the boat,” he mimicked. “It wasn’t leaking before.” Kwami gave him an odd look, one that made Nate suspect Jean-Claude was lying.

  “We’ll have to use the poles.”

  “But that will take ages!” Aunt Phil protested.

  “Oui,” Jean-Claude said curtly. “And if we want to arrive before nightfall, we best get started.”

  Nate spent the rest of the journey huddled miserably in his seat. When the sun was low in the sky, the captain finally turned the boat to shore. There was nothing but dirt and two barren thorn trees for as far as he could see. “Why are we stopping?” Nate asked.

  “We’re here,” Aunt Phil said.

  “Here?” Nate looked again to be sure he hadn’t missed something.

  “See those sandstone cliffs?” She pointed to the far distance, where Nate could just make out some tall, rocky cliffs. “That’s where we’re going.”

  As Nate stepped out of the boat, he saw a lone figure with three donkeys sitting under one of the thorn trees. The man lifted his hand in greeting. Nate waved back. “Who is that?” he asked Aunt Phil.

  “Our guide,” she said, lifting the mysterious crate out of the boat.

  Once everything was unloaded, Kwami and Jean-Claude had a small argument over what to do next. They finally agreed that Kwami would hike out for the necessary supplies to fix the engine. He assured them he could be there and back in three days, which was exactly when Aunt Phil planned on returning.

  Aunt Phil and Nate left the captain grumbling and made their way over to their guide. The ancient man’s skin was as dark as midnight, and he had bristly white hair and a beard. He bowed respectfully before Aunt Phil. “I am Atanu,” he said. “Servant to the Dolon. I was afraid you would not make it today after all.”

  Aunt Phil bowed back. “I’m sorry we were delayed.” She sent Nate’s backpack a disgruntled look.

  “What’s a Dolon?” Nate asked, relieved the man spoke English.

  “The Dhughani’s spiritual leader,” Aunt Phil whispered back.

  “If you are ready, I will take you to our village, Dr. Fludd.”

  They spent the next few minutes loading their gear and supplies onto the three donkeys. Aunt Phil gave Nate a boost so he could mount his. It was much more comfortable than the camel, he thought, but just as stubborn. “Hut hut hut,” he said, slapping the reins. “Come on. Go.” He dug his heels into the donkey’s round, thick sides. With an annoyed bray, the donkey broke into a teeth-rattling trot just long enough to catch up with Aunt Phil and Atanu.

  As they left the Niger River behind, the harsh red cliffs ahead grew larger, their sharp edges jutting against the skyline. They reminded Nate of the crocodiles’ teeth and his fingers itched to sketch them.

  Near the base of the cliffs, they came upon a deserted village. There was no sign of people. No birds sang; no roosters crowed. There weren’t even any flies buzzing around. The few scrub trees were scorched, their branches gnarled and brown. Piles of rubble littered the ground. The grass huts were so brown and twisted, it looked as if a strong wind would turn them to ash. A horrible stench hung in the air.

  “Best cover your face with this, Nate.” Aunt Phil held out a thick scarf. “It’s hard to know how much of the basilisk’s venom still lingers.”

  Despite the sweltering heat, Nate took the scarf and wrapped it twice around his mouth and nose.

  “The basilisk came through here two days ago,” Atanu told them. “Luckily, the villagers escaped unharmed.”

  Nate could only hope that he and Aunt Phil would be so lucky.

  Chapter Nine

  THE SETTING SUN WASHED THE CLIFFS in a warm red light, making them look like they were on fire. Strange spires and rooftops sprouted out of the bluffs. It wasn’t until they were closer that Nate realized the village was actually built into the rock face itself.

  The donkeys made their sure-footed way up a winding path through the lower ridges until they arrived at the village. The houses were made entirely of mud except for the pointed grass roofs they wore like jaunty hats.

  When their small group reached the village square, people came out to greet them. Their faces were friendly and welcoming. The crowd parted to let an old man in white robes and a red bonnet approach. As he drew closer, Nate spied an enormous pearl nestled in his armband.

  Aunt Phil bowed to the man, but waited for him to speak first.

  The man bowed back. “I bring you greetings, Dr. Fludd, and I thank you for coming. How is your health?”

  “Greetings, Dolon,” Aunt Phil answered. “My health is very good, thank you.”

  “And how is your family?” he asked.

  “Very good” was Aunt Phil’s reply. Nate looked at her in surprise. Her only family other than him had been lost at sea, which did not seem very good to him.

  “And how is your health, Dolon?” she asked.

  “Very good.” The old man’s eyes sparkled in approval. “You greet like a true Dhughani.”

  Aunt Phil smiled and bowed again. “My nephew and I thank you for inviting us to your village.”

  The old man studied Nate. “Is he to be the next beastologist, then?”

  “Yes,” Aunt Phil. “His name is Nathaniel.”

  Not sure what he was supposed to do, Nate bowed. “Pleased to meet you. Sir.”

  “And I you,” said the Dolon. “He is the same age as when you and I first met, yes?” he asked Aunt Phil.

  “Close,” she said.

  “I wonder if you told him the story of our first meeting?”

  Nate couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Aunt Phil was blushing. “No, I haven’t.”

  The Dolon looked back at Nate. “She was twelve years old and had come with her Uncle Seymour, who was the beastologist back then.”

  Aunt Phil interrupted. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear this old story.”

  “Oh, but I am sure he would enjoy it.” The Dolon winked at Nate, as if they were sharing some private joke. He leaned in closer. “Your aunt spent the entire visit trying to look under the basilisk’s tail!”

  Aunt Phil’s cheeks were bright red now.

  “She was trying to see if it was a boy or a girl!” the Dolon explained. Then he laughed, a rich, rolling sound that seemed to echo off the cliffs above them. Nate found himself smiling back. The Dolon had been right. Nate did enjoy the story.

  “Now, come,” the Dolon said, wiping the laughter from his eyes. “Do you wish to get settled first, or eat and hear of the basilisk’s escape?”

  Just then, Nate’s stomach growled loudly.

  Aunt Phil smiled at him. “Eat, I think.”

  The Dolon led them to a smaller square and told them to have a seat. Nate started to
sit on a pile of stones in the center, but Aunt Phil grabbed his arm and pulled him away. “We can’t sit there. It’s a sacred place.”

  Embarrassed, Nate muttered, “Sorry,” then sat on the hard-packed dirt next to Aunt Phil. The entire village had followed them and settled down to watch. Two of the women came forward, carrying food. One of them smiled and handed him a bowl. Except it wasn’t really a bowl.

  “It’s a gourd,” Aunt Phil explained when she saw him staring at it. “They dry them and use them for food and drink.”

  Inside was some yellow mushy stuff that looked like a kind of porridge. Chunks of meat floated in it.

  Nate glanced at Aunt Phil, who lifted her gourd to her mouth. Nate did the same. It wasn’t bad. The porridge tasted like nutty rice. He took another mouthful, this time getting a piece of the meat.

  He bit into it, his tongue curling as the smooth, pasty texture burst into his mouth. Liver. It was all he could do to keep from gagging. Miss Lumpton had forced him to eat liver once and he’d ended up being sick all over the dining room table. He desperately hoped he wouldn’t be sick here. Not with the entire village watching.

  He forced himself to swallow, then took a quick mouthful of porridge, hoping to erase the taste and texture from his mouth.

  Just then, one of the Dhughani pointed at him and oohed. Nate froze. Could the man tell he hated liver? He glanced over at Aunt Phil, looking for a clue.

  “It’s your gremlin,” she told him quietly. “She’s decided to come out of her hidey-hole.”

  Greasle crept out of his rucksack. “Hungry,” she said, petting his knee.

  “Can I share with her?” Nate asked.

  “If you like.”

  Nate fished a chunk of liver out and handed it to Greasle. If she thought mosquitoes were tasty, she’d probably love liver.