Gerald Durrell: The Talking Parcel

“Not far now,” said Parrot, “and we come to Phoenix Val­ley. I wish we had some sort of covering.”

“Covering?” said Penelope. “What do you mean, covering? What would we need covering for?”

“Well, the Phoenixes themselves are harmless enough,” said Parrot, “but it’s all those ashes flying about.”

“Ashes?” said Peter. “Don’t tell me there’s something else that makes fire, like the Cockatrices.”

“No, no, no,” said Parrot. “No, nothing like that. No, it’s the Phoenixes, poor dears. As you know, the Phoenix lives for about five hundred years. Then it goes and sits on its nest, which immediately bursts into flame and burns it up, and out of the ashes a new Phoenix is created. As they’re sensible enough to control their numbers in this way, H.H. thought the simplest thing to do—to avoid forest fires—would be to give them a breeding valley of their own, and this is the valley we’ll have to go through. It’s quite a colorful spectacle, really, but, as I said, there’s a lot of ash and cinders flying about. We’ll have to look a bit sharp.”

As the river wound its way onward, and Peter and Simon paddled the dinghy at a slow but steady pace, the rocky banks grew steadily higher and higher, and the stream grew swifter and swifter. So suddenly that they were scarcely prepared for it, the river grew narrower and faster and faster.

“Rapids ahead,” shouted Parrot.

Sure enough, red rocks stuck up like fangs and the golden waters gushed and frothed and bubbled around them. Peter and Simon were hard pressed to maneuver the dinghy through without getting it punctured, but they managed it and soon came into a calm stretch of river again, which had widened out between the tall cliffs.

“Whew !” said Peter, wiping his forehead. “I didn’t think we were going to make that.”

“Thank goodness it’s over,” said Simon.

“Over?” said Parrot. “That’s just the first set of rapids. There’s another set farther down, once wo get through the valley.”

Now the dinghy rounded a corner and swept into Phoenix Valley, and the sight that met their eyes was so incredible that Simon and Peter stopped paddling and sat there with their mouths open, as did Penelope, watching the strange scene that greeted their eyes on both sides of the river.

On either bank, dotted about through the valley, sat the Phoenixes, like huge, multicolored, glittering eagles, with their wings spread out, as cormorants do when they sit on the rocks to dry. Round the base of each bird there flickered and winked the fire of its nest. As they watched, one of these nests erupted like a volcano. Great streamers of orange red, blue, and yellow flames enveloped the bird that sat there, burning it and turning it immediately into ash. So it sat there, like a great model of its former self, made out of gray and white ash. The fire died down, and then gradually the Phoenix started to crumble: first a few feathers from its wing, then the whole ash bird, with a sound like a great, soft sigh, crumbled and fell into the fiery nest. After a moment’s pause, the flames started licking up again, and in their depths the children could see struggling a small, multicolored Phoenix baby thrashing its wings and wrig­gling to and fro. Eventually it fought its way free of the flames and zoomed up into the air, to fly over the valley, like a swal­low, together with all the hundreds of other Phoenixes. But, as Parrot had said, there was a certain amount of danger, for as the Phoenix turned to ash, crumbled, and fell into its nest, sparks and burning ashes flew in all directions and fell hissing into the river around them.

“Why, it’s beautiful, Parrot,” cried Penelope.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Peter. “You mean to say that each time one of those big ones turns to ash and falls into the nest it creates another one?”

“Well, it’s really the same bird,” said Parrot. “It’s what they call a metamorphosis. That’s why H.H. gave them this valley. They do no harm at all in Mythologia. They feed mainly on nectar, and they’re very decorative.”

Even though they kept the dinghy in the middle of the stream, they could still feel the heat of the burning Phoenix nests on either bank. It took them perhaps half an hour to work their way through the nesting sites, and then gradually the river started to narrow again.

“Now,” said Parrot worriedly, "this is the difficult part. We’ve got one set of rapids before we reach calm water. If we can get through this, we’re all right.”

As he was talking, the dinghy had started to drift closer and closer toward the shore, unnoticed by either Peter or Simon. Just on the edge of the bank was an enormous Phoenix nest. The bird sitting in it had its wings outspread, already turned to ash by the flames. Suddenly, the dinghy bumped against the bank just below the nest.

“Hi,” shouted Peter. “Look out.”

“Push off, push off quick,” said Simon, looking at the great ash bird towering above them.

But they were too late. Just at that moment the great ash Phoenix started to crumble. With a tremendous whoo . . . shsh it fell into its nest, and the dinghy and its occupants were en­veloped in burning ash and multicolored sparks.

“Paddle out into midstream, paddle out into midstream,” cried Simon. “Quick! Quick!”

Rapidly he and Peter paddled the dinghy out into midstream, but it was full of burning ash. Suddenly, there was a sharp plop and a hissing noise, and they could feel the dinghy shrinking under them.

“Look out,” shouted Peter. “Look out!”

The current caught the rapidly deflating dinghy and whirled it away downriver, and then suddenly there was no dinghy under them anymore. Penelope fell into the water and it closed over her head, and she was whirled away, over and over, into the darkness and roar of the second set of rapids.

Mooncalves and Unicorns

When Penelope regained consciousness, she found herself lying on a sandbank with her head in Peter’s lap. Simon was leaning over her anxiously, rubbing her hands, while Parrot paced up and down, muttering to himself.

“She’s come to,” said Simon, with obvious relief.

“Are you all right, Penny?” asked Peter anxiously.

“Speak to us, dearest Penelope,” said Parrot, peering ear­nestly into her face, his blue eyes full of tears, his bright feathers bedraggled with river water.

They all looked so woebegone and worried that Penelope wanted to laugh, but she didn’t dare.

“Of course I’m all right,” she said, sitting up. “I just feel as though I’ve swallowed half the river and been dragged through the rapids backward.”

“A remarkably perspicacious description, if I may say so,” exclaimed Parrot. “That’s exactly what did happen to you.”

“Where are we?” said Penelope, looking round.

“Well, we were swept through the rapids after the boat sank,” said Peter. “You were caught under the water amongst some rocks and Simon and I had to dive for you, but we got you up at last and managed to swim to the sandbank with you.”

The sandbank, one of several, was a long narrow one that stretched nearly the width of the river. Onto it had been washed all their belongings, including the now useless dinghy.

“What on earth are we going to do now that we can’t use the dinghy?” said Simon.

“Everything can be set to rights when we find some Moon­calves,” said Parrot testily.

“What are Mooncalves?” asked Penelope, attempting rather unsuccessfully to wring the water out of her clothes.