“Yes, heavy.” Stache smiled, his twisted black moustache turning at the edges with the grin. “Heavy like a trunk.”
“A trunk!” said Smee. Then, after a pause, he said: “Say, Cap’n, wasn’t you looking for a trunk?”
“OF COURSE I AM, YOU SEAGULL-BRAINED CRETIN,” bellowed Stache. “THE TRUNK IS WHY WE’RE ON THIS BLEEDIN’ ISLAND!” Then, calming somewhat, he turned to the pirates and said, “Looks like we’ll be taking a walk through the jungle, men.”
“It looks a might thick, don’t it, Cap’n?” asked one of the pirates, hesitantly. “Could be all manner of snakes in there, waitin’ to chomp on our legs.”
“An excellent point,” said Stache. “That’s why you shall go first.”
The pirate’s face fell, but he dared not say any more.
“Now,” said Stache, looking at another of the men, and pointing to the footprints. “How many d’you figure?”
The man dropped to one knee and studied the sand.
“A bit confusing, it is,” he said. “Might be two. Might be four. And”—he turned and pointed to the pirates’ prints in the sand—” “I’d say they ain’t half the weight of us, neither, Cap’n. Children, I’d say.”
“Children,” said Stache, his face darkening. “That cursed boy.”
“But, Cap’n,” Smee said, “I don’t see how…In that storm…”
“It’s HIM,” thundered Stache. “Him and that girl. They’re on this island.”
“Yes, Cap’n,” said Smee.
Stache pointed to the man he’d designated as snake bait.
“Get moving,” he said, pointing up the beach at the waiting jungle. “We’ve got a trunk to find. And a boy to kill.”
CHAPTER 38
THE TRANSFORMATION
IN THE LAGOON, THE FISH WERE STILL HOVERING. There were nine of them, all females, and for hours they had barely moved, other than to make small, efficient motions with their bodies to counteract the ebb and flow of the wave-surge, and thus keep themselves bathed in the glowing, green-gold water.
They hadn’t moved much, but they were changing. And fast. They still had their tails, though these had grown longer and more graceful. In their midsections, their bodies narrowed and their skin changed abruptly, from rough green scales to a white, fleshy smoothness. This fleshy, forward section now grew larger; a distinct head appeared, separating from the trunk by a slender neck. The eyes, originally on opposite sides of the head, moved closer together. The mouth became smaller, and a bulge of flesh started to protrude above it; ears were sprouting on each side of the head.
On the trunk, the dorsal fin now shrank, absorbed by the body, while the pectoral fins stretched longer, with the ends splaying into distinct fingers of tissue.
These creatures were not human; their features were still crude, their flesh startlingly white, their eyes, huge, shining, almost luminescent.
No, they weren’t human. But they were no longer fish, either. And with each moment, as their bodies became less fishlike, so did their brains. No longer were they “thinking” only in simple survival urges—move, eat, fight, flee. Now their thoughts were far more self-aware and complex. And, more and more, these thoughts centered on the cause of their wondrous transformation.
They were thinking about the trunk.
CHAPTER 39
ESCAPE
LITTLE RICHARD WAS DRENCHED IN MILK, and the cow was none too happy. But the iron brig door hung open.
“Good job,” said Slank.
“Next time, you milk the cow,” said Little Richard.
Slank led the way quietly out of the cell. A few yards away was another cell; in it lay Mrs. Bumbrake, sound asleep, snoring. Slank barely glanced at her as he led Little Richard through the ship’s stores. They entered a narrow corridor, where Little Richard’s huge bulk touched both walls; then they came to a ladder, which led up to the Jolly Roger’s galley.
The ship’s cook never saw them coming. He became aware of them only when he felt Little Richard’s enormous paw pick him up by the neck and toss him casually down the ladderway, like a sack of flour.
With that taken care of, Little Richard, always hungry, grabbed a loaf of bread and stuffed it, whole, into his mouth.
Slank, meanwhile, looked for weapons, grabbing several knives, and handing Little Richard a massive iron skillet.
Thus armed, they headed back toward the ladderway. Slank knew that, with Stache gone, the crew would be slacking. Most likely the only man awake would be the lookout.
“You head straight to the crow’s nest,” he whispered to Little Richard. “Bonk him on the head quietly.”
Little Richard nodded. They poked their heads out into the fresh salt air. Sure enough, the crew was sprawled helter-skelter on the deck, snoozing in the sunshine. Nothing moved but a scrawny red chicken.
Little Richard pushed past Slank, and, with astonishing stealth for his bulk, slipped over to the mainmast and began to climb. A minute later, Slank heard the thonk! of the skillet. The lookout was now napping as well.
With a kitchen knife, Slank quietly cut some strips of sailcloth and lengths of rope. Then he and Little Richard took care of the rest of the crew, one by one: the big man would clap his huge hand over a sleeping pirate’s mouth, holding him firmly while Slank quickly gagged and bound him.
When the pirates had all been subdued, Little Richard, feeling prankish, hoisted and slung them over the main boom, like human laundry hung out to dry. There was dark fury in the eyes of the pirates, thoroughly humiliated by being taken prisoner, without a fight, on their own ship, by two men.
But there was nothing the pirates could do. They weren’t going anywhere, and Black Stache no longer had any backup from his ship.
While Little Richard was hanging the laundry, Slank located four pistols and two swords. Then, with the pirates watching sullenly, Little Richard single-handedly lowered a dory—normally the job of four men—over the starboard rail, where it couldn’t be seen from the island.
Little Richard climbed over the rail and slid on a rope down to the boat. As Slank prepared to do the same, he turned toward the glaring pirates, blew them a dainty kiss, and shouted, “Ta ta, ladies!”
Turning his back to them, he reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a gold locket, checking to be sure the chain was intact. He replaced it, grabbed the rope, and slid down to the boat, where Richard was already at the oars. Slank cast off; Little Richard dug the oars into the water and gave a mighty backward heave; the dory shot forward. Slank reached down and touched the blade of his sword; a thin line of blood instantly appeared on his thumb.
Nice and sharp.
As they rounded the stern of the Jolly Roger, the island came into view. The longboat Stache had used to go ashore was pulled up on the beach, but there were no men in sight.
“Take us straight in,” Slank commanded, his hand on the sword handle. “We have an appointment with Mr. Stache.”
CHAPTER 40
CAPTURED
JAMES STARED, FEAR-FROZEN, at the feet in front of his face. They were like no feet he’d ever seen before: sun-bronzed, callused, with long, curling yellow toenails. Not Alf’s feet. Not pirate feet, either.
Savages.
For several eternal seconds, James kept his eyes on the feet, too terrified to lift his head and look at their owners. His body was rigid with terror as he waited for the savages to do something horrible to him—bash his head with clubs, or stab him with spears, or…
…or tap him on the shoulder.
James flinched violently when the finger touched him. From above, he heard chortling.
They’re laughing.
Slowly, James raised his head, taking in two pairs of sturdy brown legs, leading up to two filthy loincloths made of some kind of woven fiber; then two muscular torsos, and, finally, the faces of his captors.
They were young men, in their mid-twenties, one slightly taller than the other. Their faces, framed by shoulder-length jet-black hair, were eno
ugh alike that the men could have been brothers: both had high cheekbones, jutting angular noses, and dark, deep-set eyes.
They did, in fact, have spears—dark wooden shafts topped with bright-pink tips, apparently fashioned from sharpened shells. But they held the spears upright, and their bemused expressions told James that they weren’t planning to stab him.
Not right now, anyway.
For a moment James regarded the savages, and they him. Then the taller one made a lifting gesture with his nonspear hand, which James understood to mean that he was to stand. Legs trembling, he stood. Immediately, the shorter man turned and slipped into the jungle. The taller one gestured that James was to follow his companion. James stumbled forward, trying to keep up with the shorter man, who seemed to move effortlessly through the thick vegetation. The taller man followed close behind James, occasionally prodding him with a finger when they fell too far behind.
They walked in silence, not stopping, for maybe fifteen minutes; James couldn’t tell how the savages knew where they were going, but clearly they did, because suddenly they came to a large clearing, roughly circular, easily two hundred feet across. In the center of the clearing was a cluster of enormous trees, unlike any James had seen. Their stout branches, extending outward horizontally, were supported by thick, rootlike shoots that reached down to the ground, forming a labyrinth of columns that surrounded the massive main tree trunks.
James could see people moving around in the shadowy interior of the tree fortress; there appeared to be dozens of them, dark-haired and brown-skinned like his captors, men and women, some of them children. They were speaking, but in a strange language that consisted mostly of guttural sounds and a strange clicking noise.
As James neared the trees, his attention was drawn to a place at the far end of the clearing. There a half dozen men holding spears were loosely gathered around a small group of people seated on the ground.
One large person, and three small ones.
Alf and the boys.
James’s knees went weak with relief. Prodded, unnecessarily, by the savage behind him, he stumbled toward his mates, who turned toward him as he approached. He saw worry on Alf’s face, and fear on those of Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted. James, suddenly aware of his exhaustion, plopped down next to Prentiss.
The two savages who’d captured him exchanged a rapid series of odd sounds with the others in the circle. Then they fell silent, watching the captives, expressionless.
Alf glanced up at the men, then turned to James. “You all right, lad?” he whispered.
“Yes, sir,” said James. He turned to the other boys. “You all right?”
“I’m sc—scared,” said Prentiss, his voice shaking. “When you left to look for Ted, they c—came out of nowhere, and th—they…”
He stopped, his shoulders shaking with sobs. James put his arm around Prentiss and said, “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”
“Oh, right,” sneered Tubby Ted. “We’ll be just fine.”
James shot Tubby Ted a be-quiet look, but Ted wasn’t finished.
“You got us into this,” he said. “You said we should go into this stupid jungle. And now look where you’ve got us. Captured by savages. Thanks to you we’ll be killed and eaten.”
Now Prentiss and Thomas were both sobbing.
“Ted,” said James, his voice low but furious, “if you keep that up, I’ll kill you myself, you understand? We don’t know what they plan to do. So far they haven’t done anything to us. They may be friendly. Right, Alf?”
The boys looked at Alf.
“Erm…right,” said Alf, not at all believably. “They could be very friendly.”
“Then why did they capture us?” whispered Prentiss. “Why are they watching us like this? What are they going to do?”
“I dunno,” said Alf. “But I aim to talk to them.”
“But how, sir?” said James. “They make those…those noises.”
“I know,” said Alf. “But I’ve heard some tales in my time about how you talk to a savage. The trick is, keep it simple.”
“What do you mean?” said James.
“Watch,” said Alf. Slowly, he got to his feet; the savages shifted a bit, getting closer to him, but not stopping him. Alf faced the savage closest to him, an older man, perhaps in his forties. Solemnly, Alf raised his right hand, palm out.
“How,” he said.
The savage studied Alf for a moment, then turned and grunt-clicked something to his comrades, who laughed. Then the savage turned back to Alf, and, transferring his spear to his left hand, raised his right hand, and said: “How.”
Alf looked quite surprised.
“Now, what?” whispered James.
“I dunno,” said Alf. He hadn’t really planned it out. His mind raced frantically, but nothing came. Finally he decided to stick with what had been working so far. He raised his palm again.
“How,” he said.
This elicited more grunts and clicks from the older savage to his co-savages, who responded with more laughter. The older savage then turned to Alf again, and again raised his hand and uttered another solemn “How.”
Alf pondered his next move. On the one hand, the savages seemed to be responding reasonably well to “How.” On the other hand, they really weren’t making much progress.
At least they’re not eating us, he thought.
Ten seconds went by, then twenty, as Alf looked at the older savage, and the older savage looked at Alf. Finally, out of sheer nervousness, and unable to think of what else to do, Alf raised his right hand again. But this time, just as Alf began to speak, the savage rotated his spear from the vertical to the horizontal, pointing it toward Alf’s chest. Alf stopped in mid “How,” staring at the sharp pink spear tip, inches from his heart.
And then the savage spoke.
Poking his spear tip against Alf’s chest, he said: “Can we move this conversation along, old chap? I’m getting frightfully tired of ‘How.’”
CHAPTER 41
“WE’LL THINK OF
SOMETHING”
PETER WAS BARELY BREATHING NOW. He was right behind Molly, the two of them moving slowly, slowly, through a thicket of vines, placing each footstep with excruciating care, lest they break a fallen branch and give themselves away.
They were very near the voices, which were coming from a clearing just ahead. Mostly it was the strange grunts and clicks, but twice there had been another low, distinct voice, and both times Molly had turned back and mouthed the name: Alf.
Now Molly stopped. She’d reached the edge of the thicket, and was carefully pushing some vines aside, making a slit to see through. Peter moved close, looking over her shoulder, careful not to touch her, but very aware of the fact that he liked the way her neck smelled.
As the vines parted, Peter’s attention was drawn from Molly’s neck to the clearing, which was dominated by a huge tree—actually, a group of trees—in the center, protected by a thicket of odd vertical polelike growths descending from the branches. Moving among these poles were brown-skinned, black-haired people—the men wearing only loincloths, the women in slightly more modest loose shifts, the smaller children happily naked.
“Peter,” whispered Molly, nodding toward the right. “Look.”
Peter looked, and his heart jumped. There, perhaps fifty feet away, a half dozen spear-wielding men were surrounding his mates—James, Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted. Alf was there, too, but the big man was standing, holding his right hand up, speaking to the oldest-looking of the men. Whatever he said, it apparently was the wrong thing, because suddenly the savage was pointing his spear directly at Alf’s chest.
“He’s going to kill Alf!” whispered Peter. “We’ve got to stop him!”
“How?” said Molly.
“I don’t know,” said Peter, moving toward the right, keeping just outside the clearing. “We’ll think of something.”
We’d better think of something.
CHAPTER 42
“IT�
��S HERE”
LITTLE RICHARD SLIPPED INTO THE WAVES without a splash, a difficult job for a man so big, and dragged the dory ashore alongside Stache’s longboat.
Slank, a sword and two pistols stuck into his belt, waited for the boat to hit sand, and then hopped out into the shallow water. He strode to the sand, knelt on one knee, and studied the pattern of prints in the sand.
“Two . . . maybe four, children. Black Stache and his men behind them.” He pointed out the thick groove in the sand. “Somebody was dragging something heavy.”
“The treasure?” said Little Richard.
“The treasure ain’t heavy,” said Slank. “And it floated, don’t forget.”
“But if not the treasure…”
“Wreckage from the Never Land, I’d venture to guess. Dunno why they’d be dragging it up the beach.” He looked up toward the jungle, and Little Richard followed his gaze.
“We’re going in there?” he asked.
“A big ape like you…afraid?” said Slank.
“Spiders,” said Little Richard, sheepishly. “I hates ’em.”
“I reckon there’s spiders in there big as your fist,” teased Slank. “Hairy spiders. Spiders that need a shave.”
Little Richard shuddered, then saw something in the sand. “Look here!” he said.
Slank came over to see what Little Richard was pointing to. It was an indentation in the moist sand, with parallel bands running left to right. Between the bands was a pattern of wood grain.
“Water barrel,” Slank said. “Whoever was dragging it stopped to rest here. Mr. Black Stache might be a fearsome pirate, but he’s not much of a tracker, is he? He’s chasing a water barrel.” Slank barked out a laugh.
“What’s more,” he continued, “the fool’s left his longboat unguarded. We’ll tow it around that point”—he indicated a curving spit of sand in the distance—“so when Mr. Stache returns from his water-barrel chase, he’ll find he has a nasty long swim to reach the Wasp. Meanwhile, we’ll be locating that treasure.”
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