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Vanderdecken went forward into the prow of the vessel, calling to me to follow.

“Do you see those peaks afar in the distance?” he asked, pointing over the starboard bow.

I could just make out a saw-like outline in the direction indicated.

“Those are the Delectable Mountains,” he informed me; “and down on a hollow between the two ranges is the Happy Valley.”

“Where Rasselas lived?”

“Yes,” he replied, “and beyond the Delectable Mountains, on the far slope, lies Prester John’s Kingdom, and there dwell anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. At least, so they say. For my part, I have never seen any such. And I have now no desire to go to Prester John’s Kingdom, since I have been told that he has lately married Pope Joan. Do you see that grove of trees there at the base of the mountains?”

I answered that I thought I could distinguish weirdly contorted branches and strangely shivering foliage.

“That is the deadly upas-tree,” he explained, “and it is as much as a man’s life is worth to lie down in the shade of its twisted limbs. I slept there, on that point where the trees are the thickest, for a fortnight a century or so ago–but all I had for my pains was a headache. Still I should not advise you to adventure yourself under the shadow of those melancholy boughs.”

I confess at once that I was little prompted to a visit so dangerous and so profitless.

“Profitless?” he repeated. “As to that I am not so certain, for if you have a mind to see the rarest animals in the world, you could there sate your curiosity. On the shore, between the foot-hills and the grove of upas, is a park of wild beasts, the like of which no man has looked upon elsewhere. Even from the deck of this ship I have seen more than once a drove of unicorns, or a herd of centaurs, come down to the water to drink; and sometimes I have caught a pleasant glimpse of satyrs and fauns dancing in the sunlight. And once indeed–I shall never forget that extraordinary spectacle–as I sped past with every sail set and a ten-knot breeze astern, I saw the phoenix blaze up in its new birth, while the little salamanders frisked in the intense flame.”

“The phoenix?” I cried. “You have seen the phoenix?”

“In just this latitude,” he answered, “but it was about nine o’clock in the evening and I remember that the new moon was setting behind the mountains when I happened to come on deck.”

“And what was the phoenix like?” I asked.

“Really,” he replied, “the bird was almost as Herodotus described her, of the make and size of the eagle, with a plumage partly red and partly golden. If we go by the point by noon, perhaps you may see her for yourself.”

“Is she there still?” I asked, in wonder.

“Why not?” he returned. “All the game of this sort is carefully preserved and the law is off on phoenixes only once in a century. Why, if it were not for the keepers, there soon would not be a single griffin or dragon left, not a single sphinx, not a single chimaera. Even as it is, I am told they do not breed as freely now as when they could roam the whole world in safety. That is why the game laws are so rigorous. Indeed, I am informed and believe that it is not permitted to kill the were-wolves even when their howling, as they run at large at night, prevents all sleep. It is true, of course, that very few people care to remain in such a neighborhood.”

“I should think not,” I agreed. “And what manner of people are they who dare to live here?”

“Along the shore there are a few harpies,” he answered; “and now and then I have seen a mermaid on the rocks combing her hair with a golden comb as she sang to herself.”