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.

“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?”

Nate thought hard, as far back as he could remember. Finally, he shook his head. “No. Only Miss Lumpton got letters. And only once a month.”

“Hmmm,” Aunt Phil said with a funny look in her eyes. She shook her head, as if clearing it, then changed the subject. “Nate, would you fish my compass out of my saddlebag there? I want to be sure we’re on the right course.”

 

 

Once the sun rose, it didn’t take long for the day to heat up. Luckily, they reached the oasis shortly after dawn. There were a number of date palms and a small pool of water surrounded by rocks. Both camels completely ignored the commands to halt and marched straight over to the water. They lowered their heads and began drinking greedily.

“I suppose they’ve earned it,” Aunt Phil said. She reached down and patted her camel on the neck. Nate did the same, but Shabiib stopped drinking and turned around to give him a baleful stare. Afraid the camel would spit at him again, Nate stopped patting.

“Suit yourself,” he mumbled.

His rucksack, looped over his saddle horn, began twitching as Greasle wriggled out. “Are we back at the plane yet?” Her small face fell as she looked around the oasis. “What’s this place, then?”

“Shh!” Nate hissed, looking around to see if Aunt Phil had heard. Luckily, her camel had finished drinking so she had steered it away from the spring.

Afraid of being left behind, Nate tugged on the reins, trying to get Shabiib to follow. The camel wouldn’t budge. Nate tried applying his heels to the camel’s flanks. Still nothing.

“Come ON!” Nate said with one final tug at the reins. Like a shot, Shabiib loped away from the water’s edge and galloped after Aunt Phil. Greasle squeaked and Nate tried to pull back on the reins. Then, just as suddenly, Shabiib stopped. Nate found himself airborne, tumbling end over teakettle to land flat on his back in the sand. All the air whooshed out of his lungs. With a final squeal, Greasle landed a few paces to his left.

Shabiib snorted and shook his head, then strolled over to Aunt Phil. Nate struggled to find his breath. “I think I hate camels,” he wheezed.

“I told you airplanes were better,” said Greasle.