Peter and the Secret of Rundoon

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  There was no need. With a creak, the door swung open. The dark shape oozed out of the carriage onto the sand. It turned toward the driver and, with a groaning voice no human throat could have uttered, said a word that in the language of Rundoon meant “Wait.” The driver nodded, unable to speak.

  Ombra turned and glided toward the Jackal’s mouth. The moonlight seemed to press down on him, flattening his shape. He left no footprints in the sand.

  Ombra reached the mouth of the Jackal and glided inside. As he went from moonlight to darkness, he rose to full height. Passing between the rows of huge stone teeth, he moved deeper and deeper into the giant mouth until he came to a low stone archway where the Jackal’s throat would be.

  Without hesitating, Ombra glided through the archway into the pitch blackness beyond. He descended a steep, narrow stone stairway, the air growing cooler the deeper he went into the earth. Down and down he went, the stairway switching back, then switching again, then again and still again. Finally it opened into a large underground chamber, utterly dark to human eyes, though there were no humans there. The beings there did not need light, nor did they want it.

  Ombra glided to the center of the room and stopped. What followed was a conversation of sorts between Ombra and the other beings in the chamber. It was not held in spoken words; it was essentially a mingling of thoughts. Loosely translated, it went as follows:

  I failed, said Ombra. The starstuff is gone. The Starcatchers returned it.

  How did this happen? said the beings.

  I met unexpected resistance, said Ombra.

  From whom?

  A boy.

  A human boy?

  Yes. But not an ordinary human.

  A Starcatcher?

  He is allied with the Starcatchers. But he has powers beyond theirs.

  What powers?

  Flight. And more. I touched his shadow, but I could not take it. He resisted me with great strength.

  Is he a Watcher?

  It is possible. But if he is a Watcher, he does not know it. He only recently learned about the Starcatchers. He was on the ship that was to carry the starstuff to Rundoon; he came into contact with it on the island. It should have killed him, but it did not. That is when he began to acquire these powers.

  How do you know this?

  When we struggled, I felt his thoughts. What is troubling is that, at the same time, he felt my thoughts.

  What did he learn?

  I do not know.

  Could he have learned about the Reversal?

  It is possible.

  That is very troubling.

  Yes. I came as quickly as I could to report this. I was damaged.

  Where is the boy now?

  I do not know. But I believe he has returned to the island. When we struggled, I sensed that he felt strong loyalty to his friends there and would return as soon as possible.

  You must find him and bring him here. We must determine what he knows and what he has told the Starcatchers.

  Yes. And the Reversal?

  We will continue with our plan. But we cannot create the Reversal without more starstuff; we must arrange for another Fall. The boy may be able to help us with that as well, if he is a Watcher.

  I will find him.

  How far to the island?

  By ship, a week.

  That is too long. The time for the Reversal is close. You will travel in the pod.

  Yes.

  Bring the boy. Do not fail again.

  I will not fail again. I will bring the boy.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE UNSEEN ENEMY

  WE SHOULD GO BACK, said Tinker Bell, for at least the two-dozenth time. There’s nobody out here.

  “One more time around,” said Peter.

  That’s what you said last time.

  “This time I promise.”

  Hmph.

  “You can go back if you want,” said Peter, angling his body into a gentle turn, knowing that Tink would be right behind him. They were flying about five hundred feet above the sea in a sky unmarked by a single cloud. To Peter’s right the moon shone brightly, twice—once in the sky and once reflected below in the warm and placid water.

  Peter and Tink had been out for more than two hours, patrolling in widening circles, gradually increasing their distance from Mollusk Island, which rose sharply from the sea about twenty-five miles off to Peter’s left. They had seen nothing, and Peter knew he would have to return to the island soon, before dawn revealed his absence from the Mollusk village. He would be glad to reach land again; his neck was aching from keeping his head up while scouring the horizon for…

  Boats!

  Tink’s warning chime startled Peter, causing him to swerve and almost tumble head over heels in the sky.

  “Where?” he asked, regaining his balance.

  That way.

  Peter looked in the direction indicated by Tink’s tiny pointing finger—almost straight ahead but slightly to the right. He saw nothing, but that didn’t surprise him; Tink could see like a hawk. He altered his course slightly and increased his speed.

  Why are you going toward them? Shouldn’t we go back and tell the Mollusks?

  “We need to find out how many there are.”

  Many, said Tink.

  Peter, wanting a more accurate count, kept flying toward the horizon. In a few minutes he could make out a few dark shapes on the water, then more, then more…

  And then Peter felt a hollowness in his stomach as, suddenly, the whole sea ahead seemed to be covered with long, low war canoes. They were manned by teams of paddlers who sent the sleek craft surging through the water, each hull creating a ghostly moonlit wake of dozens and dozens—perhaps hundreds—of white smudge lines on the dark sea.

  Now can we leave?

  “In a minute,” said Peter, determined to bring back a good estimate of the size of the Scorpion war party. “Just a little closer.” He dropped lower, thinking that if he stayed close to the sea he would avoid detection. What he did not realize was that by reducing his altitude he was not only getting closer to the canoes, but he was also silhouetting himself against the brilliant moon.

  Closer he flew, closer…

  Look out!

  Peter heard the warning an instant before he heard the sound, a hiss of air as something shot past him no more than five feet away.

  An arrow.

  Look out!

  This time there were three hisses, one of them so close, Peter felt the air move as it went past. He banked hard to his right and flew straight up in an evasive corkscrew pattern, praying that he was not flying into the path of one of the arrows—there were many now—hissing into the sky, hunting him like invisible airborne snakes.

  Altitude was the key, he knew; if he could get high enough, they couldn’t—

  LOOK OUT!

  Peter felt it on the outside of his right thigh just above the knee, a sharp pain like a bee sting. He looked down, fearing he would see an arrow in his flesh. His fear turned to relief when he saw that the arrow had merely grazed him. He was bleeding, but it wasn’t a serious wound, just a scrape…

  “Uhh!”

  Peter grunted as the muscles in his right leg suddenly contracted in violent cramps, which almost immediately spread to the rest of his body. He doubled over in excruciating pain, and, unable to control his flight, began to tumble from the sky.

  Peter! Peter!

  He could hear Tink shouting as she flitted around him, but he couldn’t answer her, couldn’t do anything except moan in agony as he tumbled through the air while waves of cramps racked his body. It was the poison, he knew. The arrow had barely scraped him, but still the pain was almost unendurable. Fighting Prawn had warned him. He had not heeded. And now…

  Peter!

  With great effort, Peter fought to straighten his body; he could see the water now, no more than fifty feet below him and getting closer. Somehow he managed to stop tumbling and slow his descent. With the sea just a few feet away, he
began to fly forward, wobbling badly but at least no longer losing altitude.

  You’re going toward the boats!

  Peter veered left, then left again, reversing course in an ugly erratic turn, his legs brushing the water.

  “Which way?” he gasped, struggling to regain a few feet of altitude.

  This way.

  Tink flitted ahead, flashing brightly so Peter could follow.

  Can you go higher?

  “No.”

  Grimly, Peter focused on following the tiny streaking light ahead, trying to ignore the agonizing pain in his muscles and the water just below him. He tried not to think about how far they were from the island. Too far, he knew, as his toes brushed the sea. He would not be able to stay aloft for all those miles.

  “Tink,” he gasped, “I can’t keep flying.”

  Yes you can. You must.

  “I can’t.”

  Can you see the island?

  With painful effort, Peter raised his head and saw the steep volcanic cone of Mollusk Island. It was directly in front of him—but still much too far away. He would not make it.

  “I see it, but—”

  Keep flying toward it. Don’t stop flying!

  “I don’t think—”

  But he was talking to no one. Tink was gone, a tiny darting light now far ahead, leaving him alone just a few feet over the dark water.

  Peter gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep going, trying to ignore the throbbing that convulsed his entire body. He flew for five minutes, ten, fifteen, raising his head every minute or so to check his course. He was getting closer, but he knew he would not make it to the island in his pain-weakened state.

  Time and again his feet, then his shins, touched the water. Finally, he could fly no more. As he settled into the sea, he felt the warm water cover the length of his body, swallowing him; as it reached his neck, he made a few feeble attempts to swim, but his pain and fatigue were too great. He slipped beneath the surface and started to sink, staring up at the water turned golden green by the bright moon, which wobbled above him, growing dimmer as he descended into the depths, almost grateful that the pain would soon be gone.

  But it did not go. In fact, it got worse, and Peter, barely conscious now, sensed that this was because he was moving…upward. He felt himself burst through the surface, coughing water and gulping sweet salt air into his burning lungs. Tink was zipping about his head, asking over and over if he was all right, but he could not speak, only cough and gasp, cough and gasp…and wonder what had brought him up?

  Then he felt the tightness around his chest and looked down to see a pair of strong, pale arms around him, hands interlocked in front. Then he heard a familiar voice—not with his ears but in his mind—say his name, and he knew who his rescuer was.

  Teacher, he said, not aloud but with his mind.

  Yes, answered the mermaid.

  Thank you, he said.

  Don’t thank me, said Teacher. Thank Tink.

  That’s right, said Tink, who had never been happy about the mermaid’s obvious fondness for Peter.

  “Thanks, Tink,” Peter gasped.

  Propelled by graceful thrusts of Teacher’s powerful tail, Peter shot through the water. Within a half hour he was stumbling ashore on Mollusk Island. He collapsed on hands and knees in the sand, catching his breath. Then, despite the pain that still racked his body, he stood up, intending to get to the Mollusk village as quickly as he could. Head down, he stumbled forward a few feet, and then with a moan, fell…into the strong arms of Fighting Prawn. The Mollusk chief had just trotted out of the jungle, followed by two warriors.

  “Lie down,” said Fighting Prawn, setting Peter gently onto the soft sand.

  “How did you know—” Peter began.

  “Your bright little friend,” said Fighting Prawn, pointing to Tink, who glowed radiantly. “She sent the mermaids around to fetch us.”

  “Out there,” Peter said, pointing toward the sea. “Canoes. They shot me with an arrow. There were—”

  “In a moment,” said Fighting Prawn. “First let me see your wound.”

  By the bright moonlight, Fighting Prawn examined Peter’s thigh. There was a thin, straight red line in the skin, apparently caused by the side of the passing arrowhead; the flesh around it was swollen and purple.

  Fighting Prawn frowned, then grunted something to the warriors, one of whom turned and sprinted into the jungle.

  “He will bring the medicine woman,” Fighting Prawn said to Peter. “You will do what she says and swallow what she tells you to swallow, no matter how bad it tastes.”

  “Yes,” said Peter.

  “You are very fortunate, Peter. Had the arrow pierced you directly, you would be dead now. To be honest, you should be anyway; very few people survive any dose of Scorpion poison.”

  Peter hung his head.

  “I shouldn’t have gone out there,” he said.

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” agreed Fighting Prawn. “But since you did, tell me what you saw.”

  “Canoes,” Peter said. “More than a hundred of them.”

  “Which direction, and how far out?”

  “That way,” said Peter, pointing. “They’re probably about twenty miles away by now.”

  “They will be here at dawn,” said Fighting Prawn. He stood and looked out to sea. “You did well, disobeying me,” he said. “I expected them to come from the west, but they circled around, intending to surprise us. They won’t surprise us now. Though in the end I don’t know how much difference it will make.”

  Peter looked up, surprised; he had never heard Fighting Prawn sound so uncertain.

  The Mollusk chief turned to the remaining warrior and, with the tone of confident command back in his voice, grunt-clicked an order. Then he turned back to Peter.

  “He will stay with you until the medicine woman gets here,” he said. “I must go and redeploy the warriors. We must prepare to defend our island.”

  He turned and ran back into the jungle, leaving Peter and Tink with the warrior on the beach, all three of them looking out to sea toward the unseen enemy coming toward them.

  CHAPTER 12

  ST. NORBERT’S

  THE CAB, PULLED BY A LOWLY OLD NAG with a swayback and heavy hooves, moved down a rutted muddy lane lined with trees, their gnarled black branches reaching like skeleton arms into the rainy sky, which had turned from sunny to dark in an instant.

  “Do you think we’ll learn anything?” Molly said, peering doubtfully out the cab window. “All we have is the date from the newspaper articles. I’m worried that we’ll need more than that.”

  “We have money,” George said, patting his pocket. “My father says money can loosen tongues faster than all the chocolate in the world. You remember the cabdriver in Salisbury? A few quid went a long way with that one.”

  “Yes, it did. Still, I hate to have you spend your own money on this.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said George. “It’s actually Father’s money, and I rather enjoy spending it.”

  Molly smiled—her first smile of the day. But it faded quickly as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a rusted iron gate, each of its two sagging halves bearing the letter S wrapped snakelike around the letter N—the insignia of St. Norbert’s Home for Wayward Boys. Beyond the gate, past a gravel drive that was more mud than gravel, loomed a massive gray stone structure with a slate roof in such poor repair that it appeared ready to slide off.

  As Molly and George got out of the cab, the drizzle turned to a downpour. Molly lifted the hood of her cloak, and George tugged up the collar to his overcoat.

  George, handing the fare to the driver, said, “Two hours.”

  “Aye, Guv’nor,” said the driver. “But I can’t imagine why two fine young people like you would want to spend two hours in that place.” He nodded toward the building. “Ain’t nothing in there but sorrow, you mark my words.”

  “You wait for us!” George repeated.

  The cabbie
nodded again, his bowler spraying water from the rim, and gently flicked the reins, sending the old swayback horse back down the skeleton-lined lane.

  Picking their way among the many mud puddles, Molly and George walked up the driveway to the massive oak door of St. Norbert’s. There was an iron door knocker, but it was broken; so George pounded the door with his fist. After a wait of a minute or so, they heard the sound of a bolt sliding, and the door swung open to reveal a bent-over man with a two-day growth of gray beard.

  “What do you want?” he complained. His eyes were bloodshot and constantly moving.

  “My name is Molly McBride,” said Molly. “This is George, um…”

  George, seeing Molly’s hesitation, stepped in. “George…Chester…Maybeck…Dooling,” he said, causing both Molly and the man to raise their eyebrows. He held out his hand. “And you, sir, are…”

  “My name’s Grempkin,” said the man, ignoring George’s hand. “I’ll ask again: what do you want?”

  “We’d like to meet with the director,” said Molly.

  “Would you, now,” said Grempkin.

  “We’ve come all the way from London,” said George, following the plan he and Molly had worked out. “There’s been a tragedy in Miss McBride’s family—her parents, you see—and some information has come to light that suggests, strange as it seems, that a relative of hers may be here. At St. Norbert’s.”

  Grempkin’s eyebrow arched high into his hairline. “A relative, is it?”

  “Possibly,” said Molly.

  Grempkin took a closer look at Molly and George, both dressed in the manner of people who come from families with money. He tried to smile, but since he was not used to smiling, what he produced was more of a grimace. When he spoke again his tone was considerably more welcoming.

  “Well, now,” he said. “Why don’t you come in from the rain, and I’ll take you to the headmaster.”

  The foyer smelled musty, as though no door or window had been opened in years, as if the sun had never shone into this place. From somewhere up the enormous wooden staircase came the cry of a boy, and then a long groan. From somewhere else came the sound of vicious barking.