Again and again she peered ahead, blinking into the rushing wind, searching the horizon for the dark shape of land. Again and again she saw only the dark green sea, stretching away. Her only reassurance came from the sight of the porpoises. Thank goodness: there was always one below, and always another waiting for her ahead.
The day was cloudy, so most of the time she could not tell the location of the sun, nor her direction of travel. From what glimpses of the sun she did manage, she figured that the porpoises were now leading her southwest. Uncle Neville had guessed that the motor had three or four hours’ worth of fuel. Wendy didn’t know exactly how long she’d been aloft, but she was quite sure it was already longer than four hours. She glanced constantly at the fuel tank, each time patting the locket around her neck.
The engine coughed again, this time longer than ever, and when it started up again the roar was more of a sputter. Then more coughing. The wings hesitated and jerked. The ornithopter, though still flapping, was starting to descend.
This is it, thought Wendy.
She leaned forward and grabbed the filler cap on the top of the fuel tank. She gave it a counterclockwise twist. The cap did not budge.
The engine coughed again, and again, and this time it kept coughing. The ornithopter, its wings beating very slowly now, began descending at a steeper angle.
Fighting panic, Wendy gripped the cap and twisted it as hard as she could. Still it did not budge. She let go of the control lever and put both hands on the filler cap. The engine’s sputter was more silence than combustion now. Out of the corners of her eyes Wendy saw the dark sea below drawing closer and closer. She gritted her teeth and with a desperate grunt yanked at the cap. This time it gave.
The engine stopped, belched, and then sputtered again ever more weakly. Wendy could hear the waves below. She spun the cap off and tucked it into the pocket of her coat. She braced herself against the ornithopter frame. With cold-stiffened fingers, she reached behind her and fumbled with the clasp of her locket. The wave tops were near. From somewhere below came the urgent chitter of a porpoise: Up! Up!
The engine wheezed and shuddered violently, clearly about to die. With a jerk, Wendy pulled the locket from her neck, breaking the chain. She leaned forward, holding the locket toward the fuel tank’s opening. With her thumb, she flicked the locket open.
Instantly the air was filled with light, and Wendy was no longer cold, or scared, or anything bad at all. In fact, despite her desperate predicament, she felt wonderful. The source of this feeling was a radiant golden sphere of light that now enveloped the locket and her hand, from there infusing her whole body with a sense of calm and well-being. And that melodious sound…Was that bells?
Up! Up!
The urgent warning brought her back to the moment. She saw the porpoise now, directly below her, only yards away. The sputtering ornithopter was in free fall, its wings barely moving. Forcing herself to concentrate, Wendy tilted the locket over the fuel tank. A thin stream of golden light poured into the hole. A second later, the sputtering engine came to life. But this time, instead of the clackety roar she had been listening to for hours, it emitted a smooth, almost pleasant, hum.
Up! Up! Up!
Wendy snapped the locket closed with one hand and pulled the altitude lever with the other. The ornithopter responded instantly, swooping upward as its big wings beat in powerful whooshes. As it rose, Wendy carefully pushed the locket down into her coat pocket. She retrieved the fuel cap and tightened it over the tank opening. The ornithopter, its motor humming happily, continued rising swiftly and easily, flying far faster now than it had before. Soon Wendy was again soaring high above the limitless sea. Below and well behind her was the porpoise that had warned her to stay up. She waved; the porpoise leaped high in response, then was gone. Wendy looked ahead and found her next guide, waiting patiently.
She allowed herself a tiny smile. As she’d hoped, the starstuff had held her aloft. And she felt fantastic; the warmth still filled her; a vibrant energy had replaced her exhaustion.
But it would not last. She could already feel the effects of the starstuff diminishing. In time she would have to pour more into the fuel tank. How soon would that be? How much starstuff was left in the locket? How far away was the island? And what would she do when night fell? How would she see her porpoise guides? Assuming that she made it to nightfall …
As each new question popped into Wendy’s mind, her confidence diminished. She put her hand into her pocket and gripped the locket, feeling its reassuring warmth. Her eyes went back to the horizon, searching for a hint, a promise of land. She saw nothing.
She tightened her grip on the locket, her lifeline, her only hope.
CHAPTER 26
TUG-O’-WAR
PIRATE COVE LOOKED LIKE a giant spiderweb. Arranged around its shore were eleven pulleys, some suspended from palm trees, others from ropes stretched tightly between trees and rocks. Connecting these were long runs of rope, strung through the pulleys and coming together in the middle of the cove, where Mollusk divers had tied the ropes together beneath the hull of the sailing ship De Vliegen. The ship, which had a huge hole in its hull, had sat on the bottom for more than twenty years, with only its masts sticking out of the water.
From the shore, a cry went out: “All hands prepare to heave!”
This was followed by a similar command in the Mollusk language, which loosely translated to “Pull until you grunt like a warthog!”
Hook and Fighting Prawn, longtime enemies brought together for this effort, stood side by side on a tall rock overlooking the water. Surrounding the cove were Mollusks and pirates, working side by side but as wary of each other as their leaders were. The men had formed into groups and were gripping the ropes with callused hands, the same hands that had spent days rigging the massive network of pulleys.
“On three?” Hook asked Prawn. It was understood the pirates and Mollusk warriors would take orders only from their own leader.
“On one,” Prawn corrected, as this was the Mollusk system. Before Hook could protest, Fighting Prawn counted, “Three…two…one.” On “one,” both men raised their arms and shouted, in their separate languages, for their men to go to work. The men heaved; the slack ropes tightened; the palm trees bowed; the pulleys creaked and cried; the men grunted and dug their heels into the sand as if locked in a giant game of tug-o’-war.
For several excruciatingly long seconds, nothing happened. The only signs of the intense effort were concentric circles of ripples dancing around the taut ropes where they entered the water. The pulleys groaned. The ropes stretched. The workers gritted their teeth. Sweat poured from their straining bodies.
“It ain’t moving,” said Hook. “Your men need to pull harder.”
Fighting Prawn shot Hook a look, but said nothing.
And then: bubbles. Just a few at first, but soon the cove was boiling with them. The water became milky, clumps of seaweed mingling with clouds of sand. And then, slowly, the masts wobbled and began to rise. The main deck railing poked through the surface, and then came a great rushing sound as the ship’s deck appeared, water cascading off the sides.
There the ship seemed to waver, the dripping ropes trembling with the strain of holding the massive weight of the ship. One of the pulleys broke; pieces of it whistled over the ship and flew far out over the cove before splashing into the water. Two men—one pirate, one Mollusk—collapsed.
Urged on by Hook and Fighting Prawn, the other men kept heaving on their ropes, backing step by agonizing step away from the water, up the beach, toward the jungle. With each step more of the ship’s dripping hull appeared. Finally the hole in the hull was visible. Water gushed from it as it cleared the cove surface. Now they could patch it.
Fighting Prawn and Hook ordered the men to stop. The ropes were tied off to trees, and a cheer rang across the cove. And the men fell silent, as they got their first good look at the ship that had been mostly underwater for more than two decades.
&nb
sp; It looked impossibly well-preserved. Yes, there was a bit of slime on the hull, and there were fish flopping on its deck. But except for the hole, the ship looked sound. It looked almost new. None of the wood had rotted, not even the smallest piece of a rail. More incredible: all of its rigging was still intact. Every pulley and rope. Only the sails were missing.
“That ain’t possible,” said Hook. “A ship can’t look like that after sitting on the bottom.”
“A ship can’t fly, either,” said Fighting Prawn.
Hook would never admit it, but the Mollusk chief had a point. The De Vliegen had once carried a huge quantity of starstuff, which had enabled it to fly across the ocean. The starstuff had fallen out, dumped into the island’s water supply. But clearly it had left the ship permanently changed.
“So she will sail again,” said Fighting Prawn. He read the name carved across the ship’s broad transom. “The De Vliegen.”
“Yes, she will sail again,” said Hook. “And soon. But not as the De Vliegen.”
Fighting Prawn raised a questioning eyebrow.
“It’s a pirate ship now,” said Hook. “Her name is the Jolly Roger.”
From high above the cove, on the side of the steep mountain ridge that divided Mollusk Island, Cheeky O’Neal, Frederick DeWulf, Rufus Kelly, and Angus McPherson had watched the raising of the ship.
“They did it,” said DeWulf. “Didn’t think they could, but they did.”
O’Neal, his eyes on the ship, nodded.
“How long d’you think it’ll take them to repair it?” said Kelly.
“Shouldn’t take long,” said DeWulf. “Dripping wet, and she looks like she just came out of the yard. Look at that rigging! She appears to have been under maybe a day or two, discounting the slime that’s suggesting more like ten or twenty years. Any of you want to explain that to me?”
“There’s a lot on this island can’t be explained,” said Kelly.
“Looks like they’re already gettin’ started with the repairs,” said McPherson, pointing at the cove, where men, Mollusks and pirates alike, were climbing from canoes onto the ship. “Guess they really want us off this island.”
“What if they finish the repairs before we’re ready?” said Kelly. He addressed the question to O’Neal. All eyes were on the big man, waiting for an answer.
O’Neal continued staring at the ship for a few more seconds. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, determined rumble.
“It doesn’t matter what they want,” he said. “We stick to our plan.”
With a glare at the other three, he spat on the ground, turned, and started back up the ridge.
CHAPTER 27
THE LAST BIT
DUSK HAD TURNED THE GLOOMY SKY a darker shade of gray. Wendy knew night would come soon, blending sky and sea into blackness.
She peered ahead, feeling the familiar brief pang of anxiety until she caught sight of the next porpoise. How many had there been? Wendy had long since lost count. For what seemed like the thousandth time, she shifted her position on the tiny platform, trying to give her aching legs some relief.
She reckoned she had been standing for at least twelve hours. The porpoises had led her many miles south. The air was distinctly warmer now, though Wendy was hardly comfortable. Aside from being exhausted, she was hungry, having finished the last of her bread and cheese hours earlier. Her throat was parched; she thought often of her lost water bottle.
But what gnawed at her most, more than hunger or thirst, was worry. Three times the humming of the motor had dropped suddenly in pitch, and the beat of the ornithopter’s big wings had slowed. Each time Wendy quickly unscrewed the fuel-tank cap, opened the locket, and carefully poured in some more starstuff. Each time the motor hummed back to life.
But the last time this happened, the flow of starstuff had been barely a trickle. When Wendy had snapped the locket shut, she wasn’t sure there was anything at all left inside. She would find out soon enough.
The sky was much darker now. Wendy gently pushed the altitude lever, nosing the ornithopter down so she could fly closer to the sea. Her eyes were fixed on the porpoise currently guiding her. She could barely see its gray body. She wondered how she would follow the porpoises when darkness fell.
Wendy passed over the guide porpoise and, straining to see through the gloom, found the next one. With each passing minute the sky grew darker. She took the ornithopter lower, then lower still. She passed over her guide and anxiously searched the water. The darkness was almost total now. Where was the next porpoise?
Then she saw it: a strange greenish glow in the sea ahead. As she swooped closer, she realized that the glow was coming from the water itself. It formed an inverted “V,” created by the wake of the next porpoise, which itself was barely visible. When she passed over it, Wendy saw another ghostly “V” in the distance ahead. She didn’t understand why the water was glowing like this, but she was very grateful that it was.
She passed from “V” to “V,” each one an arrow pointing to the next. The motor hummed; the wings whooshed. Minutes became a half hour, which became an hour. Wendy’s legs ached; her eyes stung, peering ahead into the darkness.
And then the hum sank lower in pitch.
Wendy reached frantically to unscrew the fuel-tank cap. She was close to the water and could not afford to let the ornithopter descend much farther. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the locket, and held it over the fuel tank. With a silent prayer she flicked it open.
There was a momentary flash of golden light, raising Wendy’s hopes. But they fell immediately when the glow flickered and dimmed. Wendy shook the last bit of starstuff into the fuel tank. The engine resumed its high-pitched humming, but only for a few seconds.
Then it died.
Its wings having stopped, the ornithopter began to descend rapidly. Wendy pulled back hard on the altitude lever. The ornithopter swooped up a few feet, then stalled and went into a downward spiral. Wendy fought to control it, but the levers were useless. She was going into the ocean. She looked down in panic, but in the darkness could see nothing. She heard rushing water.
With the sound of cracking wood, the ornithopter slammed into the sea. Wendy felt a stab of pain as her head struck the ornithopter frame. Before she could hold her breath she was dragged under water. Dazed by the blow to her head, she took several seconds to understand that her coat was caught in the wreckage of the frame, which was being dragged down by the weight of the motor. She kicked furiously, blindly in the black water. She felt her coat rip and suddenly she was no longer going down. Lungs burning, she thrashed the water, struggling to swim to the surface, but not sure which way it was.
Then she felt pressure on both sides, and she began moving swiftly. The porpoises. A few seconds later, her head broke the surface. She gasped for breath, coughed up salt water, gasped some more. There were porpoises all around her; three were holding her up, using gentle pressure from their sleek bodies. Others swam close by, chittering and squeaking urgently.
Wendy tried to understand them, but she could not concentrate. She felt dazed; her head throbbed viciously. She reached up to touch her scalp and recoiled as her fingers found a deep gash. She felt blood trickling down her forehead, into her eyes.
She needed to find out where she was, where the island was. Whether she would live. She tried to concentrate, to remember her Porpoise vocabulary. Nothing came. She felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue. She struggled to keep her eyes open.
I can’t fall asleep, she thought. Not here. I can’t …
Her eyes closed; her body went limp. The porpoises repositioned themselves under her; others formed a protective ring around her. Then they began moving, taking the waves as gently as they could, painstakingly keeping Wendy afloat while her hand dragged lifelessly in the sea.
CHAPTER 28
ONE LAST PUSH
THE TRAINS HAD STOPPED.
Because she was cut off from the outside world, Molly’s sense of time had come down
to two factors: the workers’ schedule and the trains. She’d lost track of the schedule because von Schatten had ordered the work halted. That left the trains. She’d not heard one for over an hour. She knew the Underground stopped at midnight, which meant it was now past one in the morning.
That, in turn, meant there would likely be fewer guards on duty—and those who were on duty were likely dozing.
Carefully, Molly pushed the stout plank out her cell’s barred window. By the dim light from the bare corridor bulbs, she managed to fit the plank into a space she had made between the corridor’s clay wall and the closest vertical wooden support post.
Creating the space had required painstaking effort. Molly had hovered by the cell window, waiting for the rumble of a train to cover her efforts. When she heard one coming, after checking each way to see that there were no guards about, she would ram the end of the board into the clay and rock, chipping away what little she could before the train noise subsided.
The guards had nearly caught her. Despite the trains, they apparently heard her pounding and came looking. Fortunately, she was able to pull the board back into the cell before they arrived, and they had failed to spot the small hole she’d dug behind the post, hidden in shadow.
That had made her nervous enough to stop her work, at least during the day. But her digging had shown her that the corridor wall—which was also the wall to her cell—was not particularly strong. If she could move the post, the wall behind it would crumble. And that would leave a hole.
A way out of the cell.
She wasn’t sure exactly what she would do when she got out. Somehow she would have to get to James and the others, to try to free them before von Schatten decided to kill them. She would worry about how to do that later. First, she needed to escape.
Peter and the Sword of Mercy Page 13