Peter and the Secret of Rundoon

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “Yes, Father,” said Molly.

  “Yes, Lord Aster,” said George.

  “The crew are making up cabins for you both,” said Leonard. “You will go to them now and clean up as best you can. I will see you at dinner.” He turned his back, dismissing them.

  The two children left. Although they hadn’t eaten for a day, neither was looking forward to dinner: George was still quite seasick, and Molly was not at all eager to face her father again. She’d been so sure that stowing away was a good idea—that her presence would, somehow, help Peter. Now it seemed that all she had done was muddle the rescue effort.

  A liability, that’s what her father had called her.

  Neither Molly nor George spoke as a crewman led them to their cabins. When she reached hers, Molly closed the door and looked around the tiny space, which had barely enough room for a chest and a bunk bed.

  Molly sat on the bed, put her face in her hands, and wept.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE ATTACK

  FIGHTING PRAWN STOOD ALONE on the beach, watching the war canoes surging ever closer. Behind him, his Mollusk warriors lay in wait, hiding in the jungle.

  He’d done all that he could: thanks to Peter’s warning, he knew where the Scorpions would land; he’d set his defenses accordingly. His best archers were perched high in the palm trees lining the beach, ready to rain arrows down on any attackers. The trails leading inland from the beach were bristling with traps—concealed pits, trip vines, and other surprises. More Mollusk warriors, armed with bows, spears, and knives, waited to ambush. Well beyond them, the gates—both front and rear—to the Mollusk village were secured shut, and still more warriors had been posted as defense along the top of the compound’s towering log wall. On the mountainside rising above the village, Fighting Prawn had prepared other unpleasant surprises for the attackers.

  He was as ready as he could be. But…

  It looked as if there were at least a hundred Scorpion canoes coming straight at him, possibly more. And with ten warriors in each canoe…it made a thousand warriors attacking Mollusk Island. Fighting Prawn had fewer than two hundred Mollusk men with whom to defend it. They were fearless fighters and skilled in the use of their weapons. They would do anything their chief asked of them, as would the women and children back in the village. They would fight to the death—all of them—if asked.

  If he asked. The decision to fight, and how long to fight, weighed on his shoulders like a stone.

  The Scorpions’ lead canoes pulled close enough now that Fighting Prawn could see the men doing the paddling. Their faces and chests were covered with blood-red war paint. A Scorpion warrior stood in the lead canoe, his teeth showing bright white against his red-painted face. He raised a bow and fitted an arrow to the string. Fighting Prawn turned his back to the man and began to walk up the beach toward the jungle. His pace was unhurried. He would not let his men, or the Scorpions, see him run. As he reached the line of palms he heard one of his men shout, but he did not react. He kept walking calmly forward.

  THUNK!

  The arrow drilled deep into a tree trunk a foot to the right of Fighting Prawn’s head. He did not flinch. He continued walking into the shade of the trees, where he grunted an order to a man holding a conch shell.

  “Sound the battle call.”

  Peter, awakened by the low moan of the battle conch, tried to sit up. He was lying on some palm fronds on the floor of the hut. Normally the boys slept in their underground hideout, but with the Scorpions approaching, Fighting Prawn had insisted that the boys move to their driftwood hut, which was closer to the protection of the Mollusk village.

  As Peter struggled to raise his head, Tink flew in front of his face and emitted a deafening burst of chimes.

  “All right! All right!” said Peter, weakly trying to brush Tink away.

  “What did she say?” said James, who’d been sleeping next to Peter on the mat.

  “She wants me to drink my medicine.”

  “What was that horn?” asked Tubby Ted. “Is it breakfast?”

  “It’s the battle,” said James. “It’s starting.”

  “I have to help them,” Peter said, again struggling to rise.

  Another furious flurry of chimes. Tinker Bell landed on Peter’s nose, forcing him to look at her cross-eyed.

  “I think she wants you to rest,” said James.

  I want him to grow a brain, said Tink.

  “But I can help,” said Peter. “I can fly out and…”

  You can’t even sit up, said Tink.

  “You can barely sit up,” said James.

  That’s what I said, said Tink.

  “What’d she say?” asked James.

  “She agrees with you.”

  No, he agreed with me.

  “Tink,” said Peter, “please get off my nose.”

  “She’s right,” said James. “You can’t fly, and even if you could you’d get shot again. You need your medicine, and you need more rest.”

  “I need breakfast,” said Tubby Ted.

  James picked up a cup made from a hollow coconut. It contained a thick, greenish-brown liquid—made by the Mollusk medicine woman—that smelled like a combination of trail mud and rotting seaweed. Peter turned his head. Tink flew in front of his face.

  Drink it, she chimed.

  “It’s foul,” Peter complained.

  Drink it, or I’ll pour it in your ear.

  “But it’s disgusting!” said Peter, pushing the cup away.

  Tink’s chimes softened. If you drink it, I’ll fly out over the beach and tell you what’s going on.

  Peter eyed the cup. “All right,” he said. “But as soon as I feel a bit stronger, I’m going to fly out there myself.”

  He took the cup in one hand, held his nose with the other, shut his eyes, and choked down the malodorous brew in two hasty gulps. He then rolled sideways on the mat, gagging.

  “Are you all right?” said James.

  “No, I’m not all right,” said Peter. “I think this medicine is worse than the poison.” He turned to Tink. “I held up my end of the bargain. Now go find out what’s happening.”

  With a burst of bells that Peter would not have wanted to translate, Tink soared skyward in a brilliant blur and shot over the village wall. Peter resumed gagging.

  “When’s breakfast?” asked Tubby Ted.

  The Scorpion war canoes charged straight at the beach, the warriors paddling furiously to catch the breaking waves and surge high onto the sand. The Mollusk marksmen, following Fighting Prawn’s orders, waited patiently until the canoes came to rest, then let loose a fearsome volley of well-aimed arrows from the treetops. The Scorpions, clearly expecting the arrows, quickly raised shields made from the shells of sea turtles. A few of the Mollusk arrows found their targets, but most clattered harmlessly off the shells and onto the sand.

  As the Mollusks reloaded their bows, the Scorpions leapt from their canoes, pulled them high up onto the beach, and raced forward toward the trees, shrieking a high-pitched, hideous-sounding war cry. The Mollusks fired another volley; again the raised shells blocked most of them. From behind the wall of shields, Scorpion marksmen returned fire, sending dozens of poison-tipped arrows hissing toward the tops of the palm trees. A scream, then another, then still more—and Mollusk warriors began to fall from their perches.

  Fighting Prawn immediately ordered another volley of arrows, this time fired by his men on the ground. Then, as the attackers crouched defensively under their shells, he ordered his men out of the trees. As they slid swiftly down the palm trunks, Fighting Prawn turned to the man with the conch shell.

  “Sound regroup!” he grunted.

  The conch sounded; the Mollusk warriors moved back into the jungle, some carrying wounded comrades who moaned in agony from the sharp arrows and the poison.

  Fighting Prawn, the last to leave, looked back to see the red-painted Scorpions moving steadily up the beach—his beach—shrieking in triumph. They had good reason
to sound triumphant: they had easily routed the initial Mollusk defenders and were now established on the island in force. The Mollusks knew the island better, of course, and they had laid some clever traps that were yet to be revealed. But they faced far superior numbers.

  Worry gnawed at Fighting Prawn as he trotted into the jungle, where his men were taking up defensive positions.

  How long could they hold out?

  “One man’s misfortune is another man’s opportunity,” said Hook, peering through his spyglass with a smile that revealed two jagged rows of brown tooth stumps.

  Hook and seven of his men had observed the battle from a hidden perch on the jungle-covered mountainside. They witnessed the landing of the huge flotilla of war canoes; they watched with a mixture of awe and fear as the howling horde of red-painted invaders easily routed the Mollusk beach defenders.

  Now, as the attackers charged into the jungle below, the pirates looked nervously to Hook.

  “What’s the plan, Cap’n?” asked Smee.

  With the sharpened point of the curved blade attached to his left arm, Hook scratched the thick black bristles of his foot-wide moustache. “The plan?” he said. “We steal one of them nice big savage canoes and we get ourselves off this blasted island. That’s the plan.”

  One of the men frowned, then said, “But, Cap’n, what about the men back at the fort?”

  With lightning speed, Hook shot out his left arm and placed the point of his razor-sharp hook into the man’s right nostril.

  “I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” he said. “Do you recall me asking for your opinion?”

  With his crossed eyes on the hook, the pirate shook his head, barely moving it so as to avoid cutting himself.

  “Then let’s leave the captaining to me, shall we?” said Hook, who was not certain that “captaining” was a word, but was certain that nobody would question him on this point.

  “Now, listen, men,” he said. “We ain’t got time to go back to the fort. By the time we get all the way there and back, these attacking savages will control the whole island. We’d never make it to the canoes. We need to strike now, while the savages is busy killing each other. Savvy?”

  Some of the men were frowning.

  “So what we do,” said Hook, addressing the frowners, “is we snatch ourselves a canoe and put to sea, then we go ’round the other side of the island and get the men at the fort, time permitting. How’s that sound, men?”

  The men nodded slowly, though they had their doubts about “time permitting” them to rescue the others.

  “All right, then,” said Hook. He pointed off to the right. “Looks like them red-painted savages is heading to the local savage village; so that’s where the big battle will be. Massacre is more likely, but that’s not our concern. While that’s under way, we’ll sneak down to the beach, careful as cats. We’ll stay to the left there, away from the fuss. Are you with me, men?”

  The men nodded again. Hook smiled, for two reasons: one was that he was, at last, about to get off this cursed island; the other was that the path to the beach went right past the hut where the cursed flying boy was sometimes found. Ordinarily, the pirates didn’t cross to this side of the island, didn’t go near that hut—not with the village so close. But now the savages were fighting for their lives, which meant that Hook might—just might—be able to manage one last encounter with the boy who’d cost him his treasure, his ship, and his hand.

  If the boy was in that hut, he intended to take his revenge.

  The Scorpion warriors swarmed along the jungle paths like fire ants. Some succumbed to the traps set by the Mollusks—tumbling into hidden pits lined with sharp stakes, tripping on vines, becoming ensnared in falling nets. Some were felled by defenders waiting in ambush.

  But not nearly enough of them. For every Scorpion who fell, ten red-painted attackers came shrieking right behind. Fighting Prawn, who could still move more swiftly through the thick jungle than anyone in his tribe, raced from place to place, constantly repositioning his warriors, placing them where they would be most effective.

  His men fought with great courage, but the numbers were overwhelmingly against them. Relentlessly, brutally, the Scorpions pushed the Mollusks back through the jungle, closer and closer to the high-walled Mollusk compound. Finally, Fighting Prawn had no choice but to order his men into position for a last-ditch defense of the village. His marksmen mounted towers around the log wall, aiming across the clearing into the jungle. As the Scorpions started across the clearing, the front line was felled instantly. The remaining warriors retreated quickly into the jungle, but Fighting Prawn knew they would regroup and return soon with their shields protecting them.

  He had one last hope to save the village.

  “Now,” he grunted to the warrior with the conch shell.

  Immediately, the conch sounded four short bursts. Fighting Prawn turned his gaze to the mountainside rising behind the village. He saw a group of his warriors using logs as levers to maneuver massive lava boulders into earthen chutes that he had ordered dug years ago, hoping that he would never have to use them. At the same time, men with burning torches raced across the clearing to a long, shallow ditch filled with dried grass and fish oil. Seconds later, a curtain of dark smoke rose.

  Fighting Prawn squinted through the smoke and saw that the Scorpions were again coming out of the jungle, this time behind shields. He nodded to the conch man, who blew another four blasts. The men on the hillside yanked on their logs, and a dozen boulders came rumbling down the earthen chutes, which were angled so that the boulders shot across the field and over the shallow ditch, bursting through the smokescreen and into the oncoming mass of attackers. Perhaps twenty-five Scorpions went down, maybe a few more. But as a gust of wind cleared the smoke for a moment, Fighting Prawn saw it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

  The Scorpions had only been slowed, not stopped. They continued forward relentlessly as Mollusk arrows glanced harmlessly off their upright shields. In a moment they would reach the compound wall. Their numbers were far too great. They would soon destroy the village, killing every man, woman, and child. They would exterminate the Mollusk tribe.

  Unless…

  Fighting Prawn’s shoulders sagged. He turned to the conch signalman and gave an order that had never been given, in untold generations, by a Mollusk chief.

  “Sound the surrender.”

  The signalman stared at Fighting Prawn, stunned.

  “Sound it!”

  The man blew seven long, slow, mournful blasts. The Mollusk archers stopped shooting. The Scorpions stopped advancing and peered warily out from behind their shields. The clearing fell eerily silent.

  Fighting Prawn, carrying his spear, walked forward alone. He stepped through the smoke and stopped, facing the Scorpions. Slowly, he raised the spear over his head, then brought it down over his knee, breaking it into two pieces with a loud snap. He dropped the pieces onto the ground.

  The Scorpions, with howls of glee, surged forward to claim their prize.

  Peter lay on his mat, too weak to sit up, listening to the sound of shrieks and screams muffled by the jungle. A terrible battle was raging, that much was obvious; but who was winning? Tink, as promised, had gone to see, but she had yet to return with a report.

  James, Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted huddled in the driftwood hut with Peter, listening to the horrible sounds.

  “Peter,” said Prentiss, “I’m scared.”

  “It’ll be all right,” whispered Peter.

  “You don’t know that,” said Thomas.

  “Be quiet,” said James.

  “Is there any more food?” said Tubby Ted.

  “But he can’t even fly,” said Thomas. “How can he know it’s all right?”

  “Peter is our leader,” said James firmly.

  “I’m going to go look for coconuts,” said Tubby Ted, opening the ship’s hatch that served as the door of the hut.

  “Ted,” said Peter, “don’t…�
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  But Ted was already pulling the door open.

  And then he was screaming.

  “Well, well,” said Captain Hook, shoving Ted backward and stepping into the hut. “What have we here?”

  Thomas made a move to dart around Hook, but stopped when he saw that the doorway was blocked by more pirates. The boys froze as Hook sauntered over and crouched next to Peter’s pale form.

  “Feeling poorly, Peter?” he said. “You seem hot to me.” He touched his steel hook to Peter’s forehead, then roared with laughter at his own joke.

  Peter fought to keep from sounding as weak as he felt. “Let the others go,” he said. “I’m the one you want. You don’t need them.”

  “You are, indeed, the one I want,” said Hook agreeably. “But I don’t have time to deal with you properly right now, so I’m going to take you with me.” He turned to his men. “Grab the flying boy. I want two men holding him. Grip him tight and slit his throat if he tries to fly.” He looked around at the four other boys. “Take these, too,” he said.

  “But, Cap’n,” said Smee. “Won’t they…”

  “Avast gibbering, ya gibbering idjit,” barked Hook.

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “We’ve a long way to travel in them canoes,” said Hook. “We could use some extra paddlers, and these boys’ll do nicely. If they get too tired, or this flying boy gives us trouble, why, we’ll toss ’em to the sharks.” Hook smiled as these words had their intended effect on the terrified boys. “Let’s go then!” he said. “Sounds like the savages is finishing the fight, so we’d best grab a canoe while we can.”