Starcatchers 01 - Peter and the Starcatchers

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “I’d be grateful if you’d finish it off now,” said Alf. “Save me a trip back down and up these ladders. Hard on me old knees.”

  Leatherface grunted, raised the crockery pot, and began to swig the contents down. It tasted a bit unusual to him, but he’d had worse. At least most of the lumps were still.

  A half dozen gulps later, the pot was empty. Leatherface handed the pot back to Alf, picked up his club, and issued a massive belch. “Now, get out,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” said Alf, as foul burp fumes filled the passageway.

  A few moments later, Alf was back on the foredeck, handing the pot to Peter, who peered inside.

  “He ate it all,” said Peter.

  “Like a bird eating a worm,” said Alf.

  “How long, d’you think?” said Peter.

  “If there’s a jarful of rum in there,” said Alf, “he’ll be sleeping like a babe in an hour’s time.”

  “Right,” said Peter. “So we’ll meet here?”

  “We’ll meet here.”

  Peter hurried the crockery pot back to the boys’ cabin, where in a short while it was retrieved by a disappointed Hungry Bob.

  “What’s this?” he said, examining the empty pot. “Have you lads taken a fancy to the cook’s grub?”

  “No!” chorused the boys.

  “Yes,” said Peter, casting a sharp look at the others. “I mean, no, but today we were…very hungry.”

  “You’re not giving the grub to another sailor now, are you?” said Hungry Bob.

  “No, sir.”

  “You better not be,” said Hungry Bob, “after all I do for you, carrying this pot down here every day.”

  When he was gone, James said, “Peter, what did you do with the food?”

  “Never mind what I did with it,” said Peter. “You’re better off not knowing.”

  “It’s that trunk, isn’t it?” said Tubby Ted. “It’s got something to do with that stupid trunk, right?”

  “I said never mind,” Peter snapped.

  “Creeping ’round the ship all the time,” muttered Tubby Ted. “He’ll get us all in trouble, he will.”

  “You don’t seem to mind eating the food he gets from creeping around,” retorted James, drawing smiles from Prentiss and Thomas.

  James turned to Peter. “Are we going out tonight, then?”

  “I am, yes,” said Peter. “But I want you to stay here.”

  James’s face fell. “But…but I thought I was helping. I thought…”

  “You have been helping,” said Peter. “You’re a great help. But tonight I…it needs to be just me. You can help by keeping an eye on this lot. All right, mate?”

  “All right,” said James, his eyes downcast.

  “That’s a good man,” said Peter. “I’m off, then.”

  In a moment he was on deck, where he found Alf waiting. Together they crept aft in the darkness, easily avoiding the two bored, gabbing sailors on watch. With Peter in front, they crept down the first ladderway and along the passageway. They stopped at the top of the lower ladderway, cocking their ears downward. There was a noise coming from below, a deep, irregular rumbling….

  Snoring.

  Peter glanced back at Alf, who nodded, and the two moved quietly down the ladderway. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they saw the dark form of Leatherface sprawled on his back in front of the hold door, right hand still curled around his club. Alf leaned over and took hold of the snoring man’s heels, then gently pulled him clear of the doorway.

  Peter, heart pounding, reached for the door handle, and…

  The door was locked.

  It was a padlock, passed through a hasp. Peter’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought of this; the last time, the door had been open.

  But of course; Slank wasn’t taking any more chances.

  “It’s locked,” Peter whispered.

  “What?” whispered Alf. “But you said…”

  “I know,” whispered Peter. “It wasn’t locked before.”

  Alf bent over and, in the dim-yellow light of the passageway lantern, peered at the door. He saw that the padlock and hasp, like all the iron objects on the Never Land, were old and rusted.

  “Here,” he whispered. “Gimme that club.”

  Peter bent down, gently pulled the club from Leatherface’s fist, and handed it to the big man. Alf slid the handle end of the club down behind the hasp, then took hold of the fat end with both hands.

  “Be ready to run,” he whispered to Peter.

  Alf heaved back on the club. Peter heard the hold door creaking, then a pop, then another. The hasp bolts were breaking. Another heave; two more pops. A final heave, and…

  CLUNK CLUNKETY-CLUNK

  . . . the hasp and padlock, suddenly yanked free, bounced across the floor. For a moment, neither Alf nor Peter moved a muscle. Then Peter glanced down at Leatherface; he continued to snore. Peter and Alf remained motionless for perhaps a minute, listening. They heard no steps running, no stairs creaking. Nothing. Slowly, they began to breathe normally again, and their attention returned to the hold door, now unlocked.

  Alf tugged on the handle, and the door swung open. Peter and Alf peered in, seeing nothing at first in the pitch-black hold. Wishing he’d thought to bring a candle, Peter took a tentative step forward. Still he saw nothing. He felt Alf behind him. Again he slid his foot forward.

  “Stop.”

  Alf and Peter froze. The hissing voice had come from behind them, on the ladderway. Heart thumping, Peter turned and…

  Molly.

  “Get away from the door,” she whispered. “Both of you, get out of here now.”

  “Miss,” said Alf, “we don’t mean no…”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” she said. “You must leave here this instant.”

  Alf, his face worried, said to Peter, “Maybe we should…”

  “No,” said Peter, furious. “We’ve come this far, and we’re going to go in there, and she can’t stop us.”

  “Yes I can,” said Molly, her voice dead calm.

  Peter and Alf both looked at her.

  “I can scream,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t,” Peter said.

  “Yes I would.”

  “You don’t dare,” said Peter. “You’re not supposed to be here, either. You’d be in as much trouble as us.”

  “I could say I heard a noise,” she said. “I heard something fall.” She pointed to the padlock. “I came to investigate. And when I saw you, I screamed.”

  “All right, miss,” said Alf. “No need for that.” He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Come on, lad.”

  “No,” said Peter, shrugging off the hand, glaring at Molly. “You go, if you want. She doesn’t scare me.”

  “I’m going to count,” said Molly. “If you’re not gone when I get to ten, I will scream.”

  “You’re bluffing,” said Peter.

  “One,” said Molly.

  On the floor, Leatherface stirred, rolled over, resumed snoring.

  “Little friend,” whispered Alf, his tone urgent now. “I’m going.”

  “Go, then,” said Peter.

  “Two.”

  “Please, little friend.”

  “No.”

  “Three.”

  “All right, then,” said Alf, shaking his head. “Good luck, then.”

  “Four.”

  Alf was up the ladder, and gone.

  “Five.”

  “Why are you doing this?” hissed Peter.

  “Six. Because I have to.” Her face was grim.

  “But why?”

  “Seven. I can’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what? Why can’t you tell me?”

  “Eight. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try?”

  “Nine. Because I…Because it…it’s so…” Molly’s voice broke. Peter saw she was crying.

  “Molly, please, whatever it is, just tell me. Maybe
…maybe I can help you.”

  For several seconds, Molly looked at him, a look of lonely desperation, tears brimming in her luminescent green eyes. Then she made a decision—Peter saw it happen—and her expression was grim again.

  She’s going to say Ten, thought Peter. She’s going to scream.

  Molly opened her mouth.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE WITCH’S BROOM

  THE WIND WAS MUCH STRONGER NOW. Not full-force yet; no, it was still a long way from the fury that every man on the Jolly Roger could see was coming. But it was strong enough to make the rigging shriek; strong enough to rip the hat from Black Stache’s head and send it tumbling across the aft deck, with Smee’s blubbery body scuttling after it.

  Stache seemed not to notice. As the gusts tossed his long, greasy curls, he stared back toward the storm. Dwindling rapidly astern was the Sea Devil—barely a speck, now—manned by the sailors he’d thrown off his new ship. When the Jolly Roger had cast them off, they’d been frantically trying to jury-rig sails from whatever scraps of canvas they could find, hoping desperately to somehow outrun the black, boiling clouds bearing down on them.

  Not bloody likely they’ll make it, thought Stache. It’ll be dicey enough for us.

  The last of the Jolly Roger’s sails had just gone up, full and billowing; the masts groaned and the rigging creaked as the sleek ship, propelled by the mighty following wind, surged forward, sliding down the face of a great wave, then climbing the next. Stache grabbed a stout line to keep his balance, and looked up at the rigging, a rare expression of respect on his face. He was feeling more confident now.

  “She’s a fine ship, this one!” he roared to the helmsman. “Have you ever seen such speed?”

  The helmsman could only nod; even with his massive arms, he had to fight the wheel with all his strength to hold the course.

  Smee, clutching Stache’s hat, staggered back across the sloping deck, casting a worried look at the storm. Most of the sky was now black; it was daytime, but the pirates below were using lanterns.

  “Can we outrun it, Cap’n?” Smee asked, clutching the captain’s hat as if it were a baby blanket.

  “Outrun that?” Stache laughed. “No, Smee, she’s a witch of a storm, and this here”—he waved at the wind—“is her broom. She flies too fast for us, Smee. She’ll be on us in a few hours. We’ll be reefing every sail we got and dragging sea anchors before this one’s through with us. But before that happens, we’ll ride this witch’s broom ourselves, Smee. We’ll fly straight to the Never Land. She’s out there, and we need to reach her before the witch herself does.” Stache looked again at the sails, then turned to the helmsman.

  “I think we can coax another knot or two out of her,” he shouted. “Let’s put her on a broad reach, eh?”

  The helmsman knew better than to question an order from Black Stache, but he shot him a glance. Putting the ship at a sharper angle to the wind would, indeed, increase its speed; but in this ferocious gale, it would also cause the ship to heel steeply, and put a massive strain on the sails, masts, and rigging.

  Catching the helmsman’s look, Stache bellowed: “DO IT, MAN!”

  The helmsman heaved on the wheel. The black ship slowly turned, groaning, and heeled hard to starboard. The crew grabbed for handholds as water crashed across the decks.

  “HAUL IN THEM SAILS!” bellowed Stache. “GIVE ME MORE SPEED!”

  Despite the fearsome angle of the deck, crewmen clambered to the winches and, working furiously, managed to take in a few more feet on the sheets, which were taut as piano wires from the massive strain of holding the sails. As the ship gained even more speed, the starboard rail went under, and from below came the crashing sound of unsecured cargo tumbling into the side of the holds.

  “SMEE!” shouted Black Stache.

  “Aye, Cap’n?” answered Smee, who was clinging to a mast, his chubby arms wrapped around it, holding the captain’s hat in front.

  “Are the uniforms ready?”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Stache had ordered all the Wasp crewmen, including Captain Scott, stripped of their naval uniforms; they’d been left in their long johns.

  “Good. Get below, and have the men come down one at a time and change into the uniforms. When those idjits on the Never Land sees Her Majesty’s fine ship coming their way, we’ll want them to see fine British seamen on deck, coming to their rescue.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee, grateful for the chance to get out of the weather. He released the mast and lunged for a ladderway, staggering two steps before falling belly-first on Stache’s hat.

  “I’m all right!” he called, crawling the rest of the way to the ladder. “I’m all right.”

  Ignoring him, Stache turned to the helmsman, who was straining every muscle to keep the ship steady. Leaning close to the man’s ear, Stache said, “A gold piece to you, lad, if we reach the Never Land before the full weight of this storm reaches us.”

  The helmsman glanced back at the rolling waves and punishing wind, then up at the straining sails, then forward into the stinging sea salt spray. “We’ll do it, Cap’n,” he said. “If these sails hold.”

  Stache grinned a wide, yellow grin. The ship groaned as it rose to the top of a giant swell, then seemed to fly down the other side. The masts bowed and looked as if they might snap. At that moment sheets of rain poured from the sky, soaking both men and beating the ocean into a furious froth.

  Stache, his long, wet locks streaming rainwater, tossed his head back and laughed.

  He hadn’t had this much fun in years.

  CHAPTER 20

  MOLLY’S STORY

  PETER’S SHOULDERS SAGGED WITH RELIEF. “Good,” he said. “I knew you—”

  “Not here,” said Molly, gesturing toward the snoring Leatherface. “We’ll go to my cabin. Mrs. Bumbrake shouldn’t be back for an hour, at least.” Mrs. Bumbrake had taken to spending most of her evenings in Slank’s cabin, which was fine with Molly.

  “All right,” said Peter, heading toward the ladderway.

  “One thing first,” said Molly. She picked up the padlock and hasp. “We need to find the other pieces to this.”

  “Why?” said Peter.

  “Just do it, please,” she said.

  Sighing, Peter joined Molly in searching the floor by the dim lantern light. In a minute or so they’d found the four rusty bolts Alf had broken.

  “Close the door,” whispered Molly.

  Peter, having decided it was no use to question her, obeyed. Molly held the padlock and hasp up to the door and inserted the broken bolts into their former holes. Carefully, she let go; the hasp and padlock remained in place. It looked as though the door were still securely locked. Peter was impressed.

  “Come on,” said Molly.

  Peter followed her up the ladder. She motioned him to stay in the passageway while she looked inside her cabin; seeing that it was, as she had expected, empty, she motioned Peter inside and closed the door.

  “Please sit,” she said, pointing to one of the cabin’s two narrow cots. “This will take some time.”

  Peter sat. Molly remained standing, facing Peter, silent for a long moment, thinking. Finally she spoke.

  “I shouldn’t tell you any of this,” she said.

  “But you…”

  “Just listen,” she said. “I shouldn’t tell you, but, given the circumstances, I’ve decided I have no choice.”

  It sounded to Peter as though Molly was talking to herself, more than to him.

  “I’m not sure how much to tell you,” she continued. “There’s much that I don’t know myself. But if I’m to ask for your help, if I’m to ask you to risk your…I mean, there is terrible danger, and it would be wrong if you…that is, if you didn’t…”

  “Molly,” said Peter, exasperated. “Just tell me.”

  “All right,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Peter, have you ever seen a shooting star?”
r />   “Yes,” said Peter. It had been at St. Norbert’s, an eternity ago. The other boys had been asleep; Peter was lying on the narrow wooden platform that served as his bed, staring through the slit of a window at the night sky. He’d almost not believed it, the first time—the startlingly sudden, eerily silent flash of brilliant, streaking light, there for an instant and then…gone. But then he’d seen it again, and again, and again.

  The next day he’d asked Mr. Grempkin what the streaks were, and Mr. Grempkin had said they were shooting stars. So Peter asked what shooting stars were, and Mr. Grempkin said they were meteors. So Peter asked what meteors were, and Mr. Grempkin said they were rocks that fell from the heavens. So Peter asked if that meant that the heavens were made of rocks, and why were the rocks so bright? Were they on fire? How did rocks catch fire? And Mr. Grempkin clouted Peter on the ear and told him not to ask so many questions. And that had been the end of it.

  “Do you know what they are?” said Molly.

  “They’re rocks,” said Peter. “That fall from the heavens.”

  “That’s true of most of them,” said Molly. “Almost all of them, in fact. But not quite all.”

  “What do you mean?” said Peter.

  “I mean some shooting stars are not rocks. Some—a very few—are made of something quite different. It’s called starstuff. At least that’s what we call it.”

  “Starstuff? You mean pieces that fell from a star?”

  “We don’t know what it is, truthfully,” said Molly. “But it’s not rocks, and it comes from the heavens, and sometimes it comes to Earth. And when it does, we have to find it, before the Others do.”

  Peter shook his head. “Who d’you mean by ‘we’?” he said. “Who are the ‘others’? What does this have to do with…”

  “Please, Peter,” she said. “I’m explaining it as best I can.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Go on.”

  “All right. First, what I mean by ‘we.’ Peter, I’m part of a group, a small group of people. Well, mostly people. We’re called”—Molly’s hand went to the gold chain around her neck—“the Starcatchers.”