“I didn’t refuse.” I cut Peashooter off. “Nobody wanted to—”
“He refused counsel and elected to represent himself.”
“So who am I going up against?”
Compass stepped forward, the crust of calamine lotion flaking off from his face like a snake shedding its skin. “You’re looking at the prosecution right here.”
“You?” I couldn’t help but guffaw.
A broiling red cloud of acne darkened his face, burning through the lingering pink calamine cumulus. “I’ve got two years on the debate team under my belt, which is more than you can say.”
I lifted my chin up. “Well, I’ve got to warn you—debate’s my middle name.”
“Yeah—and dead’s your first and meat’s your last.”
“My name’s Dead Debate Meat? Leave the comebacks to me, Compass.”
“Say that again, I dare you—”
It looked like Compass wanted to sock me right in the eye. That would’ve meant a mistrial and this kangaroo court would’ve come to an abrupt halt.
Peashooter hammered his gavel, snapping Compass out of it. “Shall we begin?”
I nodded to Compass. “Let’s do this.”
After countless hours of watching courtroom dramas on the boob tube, you’d assume I would have absorbed some sort of law degree—but nope. Not even close.
Sporkboy stood before Peashooter, cleared his throat, and called—“All rise.”
The cannibals stood.
“Court is now in session,” Sporkboy cried. “The honorable Judge Peashooter presiding.”
“Please be seated,” Peashooter said. I sat down. “Will the defendant rise.”
Suddenly everyone’s eyes were on me.
“That’s you,” Sporkboy whispered.
“Right.” I stood back up, unsure of myself. “Of course.”
Sporkboy gave me a warm smile. “Thanks again for saving my—”
“Bailiff,” Peashooter cut him off.
The smile across Sporkboy’s lips withered. He cleared his throat and said—“Raise your right hand, please, and place your left on the book.”
Looking down, I discovered Sporkboy was holding a tattered copy of The Call of the Wild. I pressed my palm against the book’s cover.
Sporkboy raced through the words so fast I could hardly make out what he said. “DoyousolemnlysweartotellthetruththewholetruthsohelpyouGod?”
“As long as I get a fair trial.”
Sporkboy looked to Peashooter to see if this was admissible. He nodded.
“Does the defendant understand the charge of treason that has been brought against him?” Peashooter asked. “If so, how do you plead?”
“Uh—how about so very not guilty?”
“Prosecutor, the floor is yours to make your opening arguments.”
Compass circled the fire pit in his most rehearsed lawyer-walk. “Members of the jury. The Rat you see before you may look like just another runt of the litter, but believe me—Spencer Pendleton is not your friend, he is not your ally. He is not one of us at all.”
Compass halted right where he stood. He flung his arm out at his side, brandishing his index finger straight at me as if to aim a gun at my head.
“He is…a war criminal!”
“Hold on a sec,” I said, rising. “Isn’t that taking this a little too far…?”
“We are at war, Mr. Pendleton—are we not? War with the status quo!”
“Yeah, up until your Tribe became the status quo.”
“It’s my turn for opening arguments—”
“The Tribe is…dedicated to maintenance of the status quo,” I quoted Martin Luther King Jr.
“Objection!”
“Your leader,” I said, “the honorable Peashooter, warps the words of others to get you to do his bidding. The real words, the actual written words, aren’t enough—so he bends them to say whatever the heck he wants them to say.”
“Objection!”
“I may make a lot of enemies, but at least I’m telling the truth.”
“Your honor,” Compass pleaded with Peashooter, “I strongly object to this! How can I make my arguments if the defendant continues to speak at will?”
“Sustained,” Peashooter said. “Hold your tongue until it’s your turn, Mr. Pendleton—or I’ll have Sporkboy staple your lips shut.”
I knew lawyers could get thrown into jail for being in contempt of court, but lip-stapling was new for me. I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut.
“Proceed, prosecutor,” Peashooter instructed.
Compass turned back to me, a snide grin spreading over his face. “Peashooter is not the one on trial here today, Mr. Pendleton. You are. And the crimes you have committed are very clear. You ratted us out…to a parent!”
“That’s not true! I mean—objection!”
“Overruled,” Peashooter droned.
“Not just any parent,” Compass kept going, “but one of the Tribe’s own. You deliberately went behind the Tribe’s back and visited Sully Tulliver’s father.”
Hearing Sully’s name out loud made my chest tighten.
“Well, yeah.” I stumbled over my own words. “But I didn’t tell—”
“Do you deny informing Mr. Tulliver of the whereabouts of his daughter?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Do you deny informing him that his daughter was in fact still alive when he had believed she had been dead?”
“He had the right to know—”
“Let the record show that Mr. Pendleton has confessed to favoring an outsider over his own Tribe. A parent! Even though he was fully aware of tribal laws regarding the fraternizing with interlopers, he chose to acknowledge the existence of our private society—breaking not one, but two laws at the same time. Associating with an adult is to associate with the enemy, Mr. Pendleton—and that is treason!”
Quick. Think fast, Spencer. Hit him back before you lose your ground.
“Fine,” I said. “Then I’d like to call a witness to testify on my behalf.”
“Call as many witnesses as you like,” Peashooter shrugged.
“I call…you, Peashooter!” I flung my index finger at him.
Charles gasped.
“Order in the court!” Peashooter shouted, hammering his homemade gavel against his armrest. “Mr. Pendleton, it’s highly impracticable for a judge to be called as a witness for a trial he himself is presiding over.”
“What are you afraid of? I thought your conscience was clean. Or is there something you don’t want to say under oath in a court of tribal law?”
“All right—I’ll allow it. But you’re on a short leash, Mr. Pendleton. Very short.”
I waited until I knew I had everyone’s attention. I cleared my throat. “Do you think your mother misses you?”
Peashooter was taken back by the question. “I don’t see what that has to do with these proceedings, Mr. Pendleton.”
“Let me rephrase the question: What if your mom was looking for you right now? What if she was searching for answers to what had happened to her son?”
“Don’t bring my mother into this.”
“What do you think would break her heart more? Never knowing what had happened to her son—or finding you out here, in the woods, alive and well?”
Peashooter remained silent for a little too long.
Campers started looking toward one another.
“Well, Peashooter?”
I could see an idea blossom in his brain. “I believe Peter Pan said it best.” He recited—“Long ago…I thought like you that my mother would always keep the window open for me, so I stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had forgotten all about me.…”
“Bet your mom misses you right
now.”
“That’s enough.”
“I’m sure all of your parents are wondering how you are….”
“Order in the court!”
“What if he’s right?” Sporkboy asked.
“Order!” The bone-hard thwonk of the empty turtle shell echoed until everyone was quiet. “Order!”
Compass stood from his log. “If it pleases the court, your honor, I make the motion that we move to a verdict now.”
“Objection!” I shouted. “I strongly object!”
“Overruled.” Peashooter composed himself before nodding at Klepto. “Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?”
“How could they?” I asked, completely incredulous.
Klepto stood up and cleared his throat. “Sir…”
“Is it a unanimous vote?” Peashooter asked.
Klepto’s lazy eye wandered off on its own, afraid to make eye contact with Peashooter. “It is not, your honor.”
Peashooter didn’t seemed pleased by this. “Mr. Foreman, we need a unanimous vote in order to reach a verdict.”
“We know, your honor. We did exactly like you said, but…”
“But—what?”
“There’s still one jury member who voted against the rest of us.”
“Who?”
All the jury members turned toward…
…Charles.
He kept his eyes on his feet, chin dipped to his chest.
Peashooter zeroed in on him. “Stand up.”
Charles slowly rose, his eyes never leaving the ground.
“Your name—your tribal name, the name we gave you—is Jaws, isn’t it?”
Charles barely nodded.
“Have you made up your mind?”
He nodded again.
“And what’s your verdict?”
“…Innocent?” The word was so small, so fragile—it sounded like a newly born hatchling, blind and featherless.
“Innocent?” Peashooter asked. “Even when everyone else says he’s guilty?”
Charles nodded again.
“And what makes you believe Mr. Pendleton is so innocent?”
Charles muttered something I couldn’t make out. Apparently, neither could Peashooter. “I’m sorry…Say that again?”
“He’s my friend.”
“Friend?” Peashooter huffed. “He used to be my friend, too. I trusted him. But do you know what he did? He betrayed us by favoring somebody’s father over his own Tribe. Do you think your friend wouldn’t do the same to you?”
Charles didn’t respond.
“Tell me, Jaws…what exactly has Mr. Pendleton done that makes you believe he’s your friend?”
“He…he shares a bunk with me. I mean, we used to share a bunk.”
“And?”
“And…he talks to me. Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” Peashooter said, “in order to serve the greater good of the Tribe, certain exceptions must be made in regards to our own laws. That’s why, if the jury cannot reach a unanimous decision, we’ll have a hung jury on our hands.”
Then, directly to Charles, he asked: “Do you know what a hung jury is?”
Charles shook his head no.
“A hung jury means anyone who doesn’t vote with the majority will be taken to the flagpole up front and hung for as long as it takes him to change his mind.”
I’m no law expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what a “hung jury” means.
Charles finally looked up from the ground, shocked at the threat. His badger mandibles swung open as if to say something.
But the words just weren’t there.
“So what say you?” Peashooter prodded. “Have you made up your mind?”
Charles dropped his eyes once more and bit his lower lip. Blood rose up. “Guilty, your honor.”
“Louder,” Peashooter insisted.
“Guilty.”
“Louder.”
“Guilty!”
The word echoed through the woods, and Charles slumped back onto his log, defeated. I watched his shoulders shudder, as if he were dry-heaving.
Peashooter grinned. “Mr. Foreman—have you reached a verdict now?”
“We most certainly have, your honor,” Klepto said, beaming. “On the charge of treason, we find the defendant…guilty!”
“Let it be noted that on this day,” Peashooter called out, “this court has found Mr. Spencer Pendleton, our one and only Rat, guilty of treason against his Tribe.”
All the campers in the amphitheater cheered.
I bolted from my seat. “But—but that’s not fair!”
“Your honor, due to the sensitive nature of this case,” Compass interjected, “I recommend we proceed to sentencing right away.”
Peashooter nodded. “Motion to proceed to sentencing has been granted.”
“You can’t do this!”
Sporkboy prodded me forward with his quarterstaff. I fell to my knees before Peashooter’s high chair.
Peashooter hammered his snapping turtle gavel against the armrest so hard, I heard its shell crack.
“Spencer Pendleton,” he called out. “For crimes of treason against your Tribe, you are hereby sentenced to death by…tribal triathlon.”
DAY SIX: 2300 HOURS
ood evening, cannibals,” Peashooter’s voice cut through the night air. “The blood-longing became stronger than ever before. He was a killer…”
If only there was a way to tune out his voice, I thought.
Earplugs. My kingdom for a pair of earplugs….
I turned toward the dying embers of the bonfire, fueled by the last bits of kindling from the bunk bed I had slept in for only one night.
“…surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survived,” Peashooter continued to recite through the PA system. I could hear him flip the page, the sound of paper gently grazing over paper—then nothing.
Why had he stopped? Peashooter must’ve fallen asleep.
Silence. The amphitheater felt empty.
Almost empty.
I heard a rustling above my cage. Looking up, I discovered the Piranhas scattered amongst the branches. They had climbed into the trees, silently observing.
“Any chance you guys would want to help a fellow break out, would you?”
Firefly rushed into the amphitheater, a pair of bamboo tiki torches slung across his back. Ashen fingerprints speckled his face, and his hands were covered in soot.
Something was stuffed under his arm.
Both arms.
I could hear him muttering. “Gotta feed the flames, gotta feed the flames.”
What was he carrying?
Books.
He had a stack of books crammed under each arm.
My books.
“Mason,” I shouted. “You can’t burn those!”
“Gotta feed the flames,” he strained, unable to control himself. “Gotta feed the flames, gotta feed the flames…”
“Peashooter said no books!”
But he wasn’t listening.
The boy named Mason had long since been incinerated, his mind irrevocably reduced to cinders.
And like a phoenix rising out from the ashes, Firefly was all that was left.
“Feed the flames, feed the flames, feed the flames…”
He dropped all of the books onto the ground before the fire. He unsheathed the tiki torches from over his shoulders, like a pair of samurai swords, swinging them through the air before driving their wicked tips into the fire. Once they were lit, he staked the bamboo into the soil—then picked a book from the pile.
Lord of the Flies.
Firefly flipped to a random page and read—“’Cos the smoke’s a signal and we can’t be rescued if we don’t have
smoke.”
He tore out the page, balled it up before my face—and tossed it into the fire.
“Stop!”
Firefly ripped out another page. And another. He held each one up in front of my cage before crumpling it in his hand and feeding it to the flames.
Before long, the book jacket was empty. All that was left was a tattered spine, a few loose shreds of paper clinging to the book’s backbone.
Then Firefly tossed that into the fire, too.
Watership Down was next.
The bonfire lapped up each page until there was nothing.
All I could do was watch each page vanish. Each tear felt like a paper cut across my chest. I couldn’t take this torture much longer. But there was the rest of my library left to go, and I had no doubt Firefly intended on burning every last one.
Firefly held up The Outsiders. He tore out a page and expertly folded it into a paper airplane. He dipped the tip of his S. E. Hinton 747 into the tiki torch’s flame. He launched his burning airplane through the air, aiming its nose directly at my cage.
It crash-landed at my feet. I had to stomp it out before my cage caught on fire.
Firefly had already folded his next airplane by the time I had put out the first. He lit its nose on fire with the tiki torch, launched it—and ripped out another page.
“Firefly—stop it!”
A fleet of flaming kamikaze paper airplanes kept crashing into my cage, and all I could do was bat them down before they could ignite my flammable cell.
“Gotta feed the flames,” Firefly mumbled as he ripped a fresh page free.
It started to rain.
Just a light sprinkle, extinguishing the tiki torches.
Then I noticed how I wasn’t getting wet. The drizzle seemed to be aimed specifically at Firefly. The downpour redirected itself from his hand up to his head.
We both looked up, probably coming to the same conclusion simultaneously with one another—that’s not rain.
The Piranhas peered down from the trees, proudly presenting their natural fire extinguishers.
Firefly leapt out of the way—but it was too late. He was completely doused. He just froze, unable to move. He simply held his arms out at his sides and dripped.
Compass entered the amphitheater with his quarterstaff.
“What’s going on in here?” Spotting the Piranhas, he jabbed at the tree and sent them scurrying away. “Get out of here! Get!”
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