Peter and the Secret of Rundoon

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  He wants you to get out of his cage, she told Peter.

  “I’d love to,” he said. “But how?” The only opening was the hatch through which he’d entered; the hatch door hung open and the wind howled as the rocket gained speed and altitude. If Peter went out that way, the rocket would leave him behind.

  Tink squirmed past Peter and examined the cage behind him.

  Here, she said, chiming loudly to be heard over the howl of the wind and the roar of the rocket. Open this side.

  Peter craned his neck and saw that the back wall of the cage was held in place by metal pins at the top and bottom. He yanked these out. The cage wall dropped away, clattering as it fell to the base of the rocket. Peter pushed himself out and hovered next to the cage. The starstuff was in the compartment directly above him; he could feel it and see it—the compartment wall glowed brightly, filling the upper part of the rocket with light. Below him was the main section of the rocket, a chimneylike cylinder a bit more than three feet in diameter, filled with smoke from the fuel burning down at the base of the rocket.

  Coughing from the smoke, Peter stuck his head back into the cage, which was starkly illuminated by the glow from the starstuff compartment. Franklin, he now saw, was held firmly in place by a leather harness. The monkey had his face pressed against what looked like a telescope eyepiece, and he was manipulating two levers. A third lever, with a red handle, projected into the cage from above; this, Peter assumed, would open the door to the starstuff compartment.

  “Ask him what he’s doing,” Peter said to Tink. She exchanged sounds with Franklin, then told Peter, He’s keeping the light in the circle. If he keeps it in the circle, he gets a banana.

  “Let me see,” said Peter, pushing the monkey aside. Franklin screeched in protest.

  He thinks you’re going to take his banana.

  “Tell him he can have his banana,” snapped Peter. While Tink calmed Franklin, Peter squinted into the eyepiece and saw a magnified image of the starry desert sky with a small white circle painted in the middle. Evidently, Franklin was supposed to steer the rocket so that a certain star—Peter couldn’t tell which one—remained in the circle, thus holding the right course. He glanced out the open hatchway; at the moment, the rocket appeared to be going straight up into the meteor-streaked sky. He would have to change that.

  Peter quickly unbuckled Franklin’s straps and shoved the still-protesting monkey aside. He looked out the hatchway and pulled on one of the control levers. The rocket veered to the right so sharply that Peter, Franklin, and Tink were almost hurled out. Peter quickly pushed the lever forward, straightening the rocket. He tried the other lever, gently pushing and pulling, getting the feel of it.

  What are you doing? chimed Tink.

  “I’m steering it,” said Peter.

  Steering it WHERE?

  Peter was pondering the same question. He looked out the open hatchway. Below—quite far below—he saw the city of Maknar and the palace; in the distance to one side was the desert. To the other side lay the harbor and the sea. His eyes rested a moment on the vast expanse of dark water. Then he gently pushed on both levers. The rocket began to turn to a horizontal position.

  What are you doing? said Tink.

  “I’m going to fly it into the sea,” said Peter. “That way they can’t get the starstuff back. We’ll jump out before it reaches the water.”

  What about Franklin?

  “I’ll hold him.”

  The rocket leveled off. Peter, sticking his head out the hatchway to see, put it into a sweeping turn over the desert, aiming toward the harbor. He brought the rocket lower, lower; he passed over the palace and could see, hurtling past, the ring of torches still burning around the launch site in the courtyard. Ahead, he saw the curve of the harbor, the masts of ships. He squinted against the rushing air as he looked out toward the sea.

  He angled the rocket even lower. The roar of the wind filled his ears. Thus he did not hear the urgent warning sound from Tink, nor the shriek from Franklin.

  Then he felt the cold creeping into his feet. He turned to see Ombra just outside the cage. He was shrinking from the light of the starstuff in the compartment above but managing to reach a black tentacle out to touch Peter’s shadow, cast in that same light. Peter felt his strength being sucked away. He whirled back to the hatchway and, sticking his head out, saw that the rocket was just about to reach the harbor; ahead, almost level with the rocket, was the mainmast of a large sailing ship.

  Peter felt the cold rising in his legs. There was no more time. He reached up and yanked on the red lever. He heard the hatch on the starstuff compartment opening, then saw a flash outside, like lightning. He heard a roar of rage and felt the warmth flood back into his legs as the flash drove Ombra back. Before Ombra could touch his shadow again, Peter released the red lever and dove out of the opening.

  As he did, he heard a clang above him, and he realized to his horror that the starstuff hatch—either because of the motion of the rocket, or Ombra’s actions—had swung closed. He whirled back, hoping to reach the lever again, but the rocket was already hurtling past, faster than he could fly. With a desperate lunge he managed to grab on to its side, but the smooth metal gave him no purchase. He slid down to the end of the rocket, finally stopping when he caught hold of one of the four hinged steering plates sticking out of the base.

  He clung to the plate, the wind roaring past. He dared not let go of the rocket for two reasons: one was that Tinker Bell was still inside; the other was that, although he had dumped some of the starstuff over the harbor, he had not dumped it all—he could see that the top of the rocket was still glowing brightly. He didn’t know whether there was enough starstuff left to accomplish Glotz’s mission, but he did know this: the rocket was no longer descending. He felt a movement in the plate he was clinging to as it was pulled by the cable attached to it. Something—either the monkey, or Ombra himself—was operating the steering levers.

  The rocket began to rise.

  CHAPTER 58

  THE ROAR IN THE SKY

  FROM THE DECK OF THE De Vliegen—the name carved on the prow of the ship he and his mates had just commandeered—George watched helplessly as the three rowboats full of angry men drew closer. The nearest rowboat had almost reached the ship; by the light from the meteor-streaked sky George could clearly see the rage on the men’s faces.

  Suddenly, the rage turned to fear. The men stopped rowing and pointed at something, shouting. George heard a roar in the sky and turned to see a rocket thundering toward the ship. It was spitting orange flames and billowing black smoke and seemed impossibly close to the water, so close that George was sure it would hit the ship. As it bore down on him, he saw what looked like a door flapping open.

  In the next instant, the night turned to brilliant day as the rocket released a glowing mass of yellow-gold light, brighter than anything George or the others had ever seen. James, Slightly, and the other boys were hurled to the deck, thrown on their bellies against the rough wood as if a giant hand were pressing down on them.

  George tried to hold on to the helm, but he was ripped away from it and thrown against the mizzenmast by what felt like a hurricane wind. Yet it wasn’t wind at all—not a line fluttered, and the mainsail still hung limply from the yard. And despite its terrifying force, the “wind” also had a strangely pleasant component, imparting a feeling of well-being that George recognized instantly, having felt it before.

  “Starstuff!” he shouted to the others. “Stay down! Don’t look at it! Keep away from it!”

  The glowing sphere sank slowly, like a giant balloon. George prayed it would land in the water, but it descended directly onto the De Vliegen. As the starstuff touched the ship, bolts of golden light raced down the masts and spread across the deck like melted wax. It washed over the cowering boys, whose fear turned to joy as they felt their aches and hunger disappear, felt their bodies grow lighter.

  Then something rocked the ship, port to starboard, bow to stern
. With their eyes pressed shut against the brilliant glare, the boys could not see what was happening, but the ship was now glowing—every sail, every plank, every line, cleat, pulley, and nail, shining with golden light. And then, as swiftly as the light had spread throughout the ship, it began to contract, reforming itself into a huge glowing orb, which rolled across the deck to the main cargo hold, whose hatch had been left open during the repairs. The sphere stopped on the brink, then plunged into the belly of the ship.

  The glare was gone; the boys opened their eyes. The ship looked normal again, save for a column of golden light rising from the hold into the night sky.

  George and James were the first back on their feet.

  “Is it gone?” said James, blinking.

  “I don’t think so,” said George, pointing toward the light column.

  “Maybe we should close the hatch,” said James.

  “No,” said George. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Not for us,” said Slightly, arriving on the quarterdeck. “These suits will protect us.” He, Curly, and Nibs went to the hatchway and heaved the doors closed. The intense light now escaped from the cracks of the hatch, reaching into the night sky. Then, as the boys stared in astonishment, the light began to change color, from gold to yellow, from yellow to orange, then to a feverish red, and then…nothing.

  “Do you think it’s passed through the hull?” said James.

  “I don’t know,” said George. “I don’t know where it is.”

  “They’re coming!” shouted Thomas.

  George spun around. He’d forgotten all about the attackers in the rowboats. They had retreated during the starstuff spectacle, but now that the ship appeared normal again, they were rowing toward it furiously.

  “Prepare to be boarded!” George shouted. “Loose the nets, let fly the belaying pins!” He’d dreamed of being a sea captain and issuing these orders.

  The other boys stood still, looking confused.

  “Untie the nets!” shouted George. “And throw anything at them that isn’t tied down!”

  The rowboats quickly closed the distance. One bumped up against the hull.

  “Hurry with those nets!” George shouted. “James, climb the forward mast and give me more sail!”

  James started running toward the mast, and then a wonderful thing happened: his feet left the ground. He was flying, like Peter! With a whoop of elation he swept up the mast and began untying the sails.

  The other boys, seeing this, leapt from the deck and found, to their utter joy that they, too, could fly—at least for now. Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted began swooping around the deck, untying nets as quickly as they could. Slightly, Curly, Nibs, and the twins were scooping up wooden pins, empty barrels, and anything else they could find and dropping them on the first boatload of attackers, now climbing the nets. The missiles hit two of the men on the head, causing them to fall back into their boat, which tipped and capsized, throwing its occupants into the water. Prentiss and Ted joined Slightly and Curly. They flew up and dropped a heavy box of nails into the next rowboat from seventy-five feet in the air. The box went right through the bottom of the rowboat, sinking it immediately as the men dove into the sea. The boys cheered.

  But more rowboats were nearing the ship, and still more were coming. George, with James’s help on the sails, had the ship moving now, but not fast enough. Two more rowboats banged into the ship. More men jumped onto the nets and started to climb. The boys swooped overhead, raining objects on them. But the men kept coming.

  George felt the ship lurch. He looked up, but it wasn’t the wind—the sails were no fuller. Another lurch, and then a loud groaning noise rose from the ship’s bowels, as though its beams and planks were being torn apart. The masts shook; the sails shivered; the lines danced.

  James, standing high on a yardarm on the forward mast, shouted something to George and pointed toward the water.

  George, unable to hear over the groaning of the ship, assumed James was pointing out the attackers. “I know!” he shouted. “Just get us more sail!”

  But it wasn’t that at all. James was gesturing frantically now. George looked, and his mouth fell open.

  The De Vliegen was rising. George ran to the rail. The ship, its timbers groaning and creaking in protest, was lifting out of the water. The terrified attackers were letting go of the nets and dropping back into the harbor, then swimming frantically away from the dripping hull. The men still in rowboats were staring up at the rising ship in slack-jawed amazement.

  George heard a whoop from James; the forward sail was free. He ran back to the wheel and gave it a spin; the ship answered, slowly turning. Its sails filled with wind, and it began to pick up speed. And still it was rising: now fifty feet above the water, now sixty. George put the ship into a long, slow turn to port, coming fully around, and ordered his flying crew to adjust the sails. The flying ship passed over the dry dock, its former attackers staring up at it helplessly.

  George spun the wheel, straightening their course. He grinned.

  The spires of Zarboff’s palace lay directly ahead.

  CHAPTER 59

  THE STRUGGLE

  THE AIR GREW COLDER as the rocket rose, rushing past Peter’s bare arms and legs and causing him to shiver as he desperately clung to the metal steering-plate. The rocket flew high over the desert now, Maknar barely visible far below. Above, a thousand meteors slashed the sky.

  Soon, he thought.

  The fuel couldn’t last forever. At some point, the monkey—or whatever was now piloting the rocket—would release the remaining starstuff. If Peter was going to do something, he had to do it now.

  He loosened his grip on the metal plate, testing whether he could, for at least a brief burst, fly fast enough to keep up with the speed of the rocket. He wasn’t sure. Perhaps if he used his legs to push off from the metal plate…

  He looked up the side of the rocket. The door to the monkey compartment was perhaps thirty feet away. If he could get just that far, he could grab on to the latch. Thirty feet. He had to try.

  Carefully, bracing himself against the rocket’s side, he climbed onto the plate. He crouched, tensing his legs, then silently counted: one…two…

  THREE!

  He pushed off with all his strength. Added to the rocket’s forward momentum, the effort sent him skimming upward. He reached out for the latch, but his hand fell a foot short. The rocket slipped past. He grabbed for purchase, his hands sliding along the cold metal, desperately trying to get a grip. His fingers caught a small ridge where two metal plates were joined. Somehow he held on to it, stopping his slide down the rocket. He squinted up through the cold, blasting wind—the latch was five feet above him. He gripped the ridge and with a grunt heaved himself upward. He flung his hands forward and managed to get his right hand on the latch. He clung to it as his legs swung wildly away from the rocket. He got his other hand on the latch and steadied his body. He yanked the latch; the hatch door swung open.

  Peter hauled himself up and peered inside. To his relief, he saw that the rocket was being flown by Franklin, his face pressed to the eyepiece, his hairy hands on the control levers. Peter saw no sign of Ombra; apparently the bright glow from the starstuff compartment was keeping him away, at least for the moment. And there was Tink! She flew to him, chiming something. But Peter had no time to listen. Franklin, intent on earning his banana, was raising an arm toward the red lever that released the starstuff.

  “No!” shouted Peter, shoving the screeching monkey away from the controls. He grabbed the levers and, ignoring Franklin’s frantic protests, began to turn the rocket.

  Urgent chimes from Tink. Peter glanced to his left and saw the blackness seeping into the monkey’s cage. A tentacle reached for Peter’s shadow. He squirmed to keep it away, at the same time pushing the levers and putting the rocket horizontal. The tentacle touched his shadow. He felt a chill.

  “Stop him, Tink!” he shouted, closing his eyes. Even through his eyelids, he could
see the flash as Tink filled the rocket with a brilliant light. Peter felt the chill leave him immediately. He opened his eyes; Ombra was gone again, for now. Franklin was gibbering hysterically, temporarily blinded. Tink lay motionless on the bottom of the cage. Peter picked her up and tucked her gently inside his shirt, then returned his attention to the controls. He stuck his head out the open hatchway and, getting his bearings, began steering the rocket back toward Maknar, and the sea beyond.

  He glanced back into the cage.

  The tentacle was there again. It was slithering forward, reaching for Peter’s shadow. He shifted away, but there was little room to maneuver in the cage, especially with Franklin whimpering in the corner. The tentacle kept coming. Again it touched his shadow; again he felt the cold. He looked out the hatchway; the rocket was still over the desert, too far from the sea. The cold was creeping up inside him. He felt Ombra now, as he had felt him at Stonehenge. Peter had won that struggle, but he was losing this one, the darkness flowing into him through the tentacle attached to his shadow, filling him, taking him over.

  “No!” he shouted, resisting, willing his arms to push the levers forward, to put the rocket into a steeper dive. He pushed his head out the window and saw that the city and harbor were closer, but still too far. His eyes fell on a dark shape in the desert. He heard Ombra’s roar of rage and realized that he was hearing it inside his own mind, as Ombra saw—through Peter’s eyes—what Peter was looking at.

  Now Peter’s arms and hands were moving. But Peter was not moving them—Ombra was. He was making Peter pull the control levers back.

  “No!” Peter shouted, this time at his own hands. But they continued to betray him. The rocket was turning back toward the sky. Ombra was going to make Peter finish the job.

  “N—” he started to repeat, but now Ombra had control over even his mouth, and he heard himself say in a ghastly voice, part his and part Ombra’s: “Quiet, foolish boy.” Peter watched in helpless horror as his own hands began to steer the rocket upward, and he realized that as soon as it was vertical again Ombra would make him release the starstuff.