Starcatchers 01 - Peter and the Starcatchers

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “And now,” said Leonard, looking around, “we need the…Ah, here they are.”

  The young Mollusk hunters were returning from the jungle, trotting down the beach, the one in front proudly holding something in his upraised hand. As he drew near, Peter saw that it was a bird, small but extraordinarily beautiful, its body and wings a startling emerald green, its delicate, darting head a brilliant summer-daisy yellow.

  “Perfect!” said Leonard. “If I may. . .” He held out his left hand, and the hunter gently placed the bird on his palm. Leonard gently curled his fingers around the delicate creature. With his right hand, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the golden sack. He loosened the drawstring, carefully placed the bird inside, then pulled the drawstring tight again, and let the sack rest on his palm.

  For a full minute, nothing happened. Everyone—Starcatchers, Mollusks, and boys—stared at the sack, waiting.

  And then they heard it.

  “Bells!” said Alf. “It’s the bells!”

  It was coming from the sack, but it felt as though it was in the air all around them: a lovely, delicate tinkling sound, a happy sound, a mischievous sound…

  And Peter understood it. He stared at the sack, his eyes wide.

  “That’s right,” said Leonard, smiling. “She’s talking to you.”

  “But…who is?” said Peter.

  “She is,” said Leonard, as he loosened the drawstring and pulled the golden sack down. And there, standing on Leonard’s palm, looking directly at Peter, oblivious to the gasps of the boys, and the shouts of the Mollusks, was…

  “It’s a fairy,” said Peter.

  “Yes,” said Leonard. “Or at least that’s the name that’s been given to these creatures. So we’ll call her that, Peter. She’s your fairy, and she’ll watch over you.”

  The fairy, in a shimmer of gold, sprang from Leonard’s hand and darted to Peter, flitting around his head, filling his ears with her magical bell sounds.

  “Those are my friends,” Peter said.

  “Who’re you talking to?” said James.

  “The fairy!” said Peter. “Don’t you hear her talking?”

  “No,” said James. “Just the bells.”

  The fairy darted over to Molly, circled her twice, and darted back to Peter.

  “Yes,” said Peter, “that’s Molly.”

  More bell sounds.

  “No she’s not!” said Peter.

  “What did she call me?” said Molly.

  “Err, nothing,” said Peter.

  Leonard laughed. “Looks like you’ve got a jealous fairy,” he said. “She’ll be a handful, that one. But she’ll watch over you, Peter; that’s her job.”

  “Thank you,” said Peter, not entirely certain that he wanted a fairy.

  “All right, then,” said Leonard. “We’ve got to get back to the ship.” Solemn now, he put out his hand to Peter, and Peter shook it.

  “Good-bye, Peter,” Leonard said. “Thank you for all you’ve done, and be careful.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Peter. “I will.”

  Leonard turned and got into the longboat. Alf was already seated with the rest of the Starcatchers. Only Molly remained on the sand. Peter took a step toward her, and she toward him. The other boys stepped away, giving them a place to converse in private.

  “Good-bye, Peter,” Molly said. “Thank you for all you did for m…for us.”

  “Good-bye, Molly,” said Peter.

  They looked at each other for a few moments, both trying to think of something to say, both failing. Then Molly began to turn.

  “Wait,” said Peter.

  Molly turned back, her eyes questioning.

  “Maybe…” said Peter, and he stopped.

  “Maybe what?” said Molly.

  “Maybe, I was thinking, since I can fly,” said Peter, “maybe I could come to see you some time, in England. I could fly there!”

  Molly smiled. “That would be nice, Peter. That would be lovely.”

  Another few moments passed.

  “I suppose it will have to be soon,” said Peter. “Because you’re going to be getting older, and I guess I’m…not.”

  “Yes,” said Molly, fighting to keep her smile. “I suppose that’s so.”

  “Well, then,” said Peter.

  “Yes,” said Molly.

  And then, because he didn’t want her to see him cry, Peter turned away, and so Molly turned away. She had taken two steps toward the longboat when she felt his hand on her shoulder, and she turned, and he held her, then, and she held him, just for a moment, the last moment they would ever have when they were both the same age.

  And then, eyes burning, Molly ran to the longboat and jumped in, and the Mollusks grabbed the boat’s sides and slid it into the water, and the Starcatchers pulled on the oars, and the longboat, with Ammm leading the way, glided away from the beach. Molly sat in the stern, next to her father, looking back at Peter, who stood alone at the water’s edge. His mates, farther up on the beach, were waving; but Peter was only watching, and Molly knew he was watching only her.

  And she was right: Peter watched her until she was only a dot at the mouth of the lagoon, and then she was gone. He turned and trudged up the beach, to where Fighting Prawn stood with James and the others.

  “You’ll need wood,” said Fighting Prawn.

  “What?” said Peter.

  “To make your dwelling,” said Fighting Prawn. “And for your cooking fire. You’ll need wood.”

  “I suppose that’s so,” said Peter.

  “Driftwood is good,” said Fighting Prawn. “Look along the beach. Bring the wood back here, and my people will show you what to do.”

  “Thank you,” said Peter.

  The boys split up, looking for wood. Peter walked along the waterline. He thought about flying, but decided he felt more like walking; he was feeling numb, and happy to have a task to keep him occupied. He’d walked several hundred yards when he saw it, sliding back and forth on the sand in the gentle surf: a piece of wood, painted, about six feet long.

  He walked to it, picked it up. There were letters on the bottom, letters he’d seen before, on the ship that had carried him from London, the ship that had broken up on the reef that guarded this island. The letters said:

  NEVER LAND

  Peter looked at it. And then looked around him—at the lagoon; at the rock where the mermaids (Mermaids!) lounged; at the palm-fringed beach; at the tinkling fairy flitting over his head; at his new friends the Mollusks; at the jungle-covered, pirate-infested mountains looming over it all.

  Then he looked at the board again, and he laughed out loud.

  “That’s exactly where I am,” he said.

  CHAPTER 39

  THE MARKET

  PETER, WITH AN EXHAUSTED TlNKER BELL clutching tightly to his shirt, flew low over the dark city until, judging that he was a safe distance from the man, he alit on the peak of a steeply pitched roof. There he crouched, shivering.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  Yes, answered Tink. But tired.

  “That was a good plan you had back there,” he said.

  Yes, it was.

  They went quiet for a few minutes, recovering. In the east, the black of the night began to soften to a dark gray; dawn was coming as a slight glow through the coal smoke. Peter looked around and saw he was atop a tallish building, standing alone. To one side was a railroad track; to the other an open square with rows of stalls, apparently some kind of market.

  Peter was grateful that the nightmarish night was finally ending, but he dared not let daylight catch him perched in so visible a spot. Sitting down, he slid on his bottom to the edge of the roof, then dropped gently down to the square. No sooner had his bare feet touched the dirt than he began to hear sounds of the awakening day; a cough, voices, barking, cart wheels rumbling on cobblestones.

  Peter tucked the protesting Tinker Bell under his shirt and walked down a row of stalls to a low stone wall separati
ng the square from the street. It occurred to him that a market might be a good place to find food. He sat on the wall, his plan for the moment being to wait there until the sellers arrived, in hopes he might be able to beg or borrow a bite to eat, and then see if anybody could tell him the way to Lord Aster’s house.

  Soon enough the sellers began to arrive, in ones and twos, bringing their wares in by hand and on pushcarts. But it wasn’t food they were selling: it was…animals.

  Peter and Tink had landed in a pet market, on a street called Brick Lane. The carts were stacked with cages, inside which were all sorts of small animals—dogs, cats, guinea pigs, turtles, snakes, lizards, chattering monkeys, and birds. Most of all, birds. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, big and small, native and exotic, bright and drab, sometimes dozens to a cage, twittering, trilling, tweeting, screeching.

  To Peter, it was a meaningless cacophony. But not to Tink. Tink understood the birds perfectly, and what they were saying did not please her at all. Peter felt a vibration, and then Tink’s tiny, furious face poked from his collar. Quickly he covered her with his hand.

  “Get back in there,” he hissed.

  They want out, she said.

  “Tink, we can’t…”

  They’re hungry and scared. They want to fly.“ But we…”

  Peter’s protest was too late. Tink had pushed through his fingers and was streaking toward a small, wiry man pushing a cart with four large cages filled with canaries, twittering and flitting around like bright yellow leaves whipped by a late-autumn wind.

  “Come back!” called Peter, his voice drawing the attention of the wiry man, who turned away from his cage to look at Peter just as Tink darted past him and landed next to one of his cages. Her motion caught the man’s eye, and he began to turn back toward the cart.

  “No!” yelled Peter, drawing the man’s narrow-set eyes back to him. He was sallow-faced and thin-lipped, with strands of oil-brown hair plastered to his forehead. Peter saw that, behind the man, Tink had found the cage door and was fiddling with the latch.

  “What is it?” said the man, annoyed.

  Peter tried frantically to think of something to say. Tink had the cage door open now and had stuck her head inside.

  She was communicating something, somehow, to the birds, who had stopped twittering and were listening to her intently, heads cocked.

  “I…ah…” Peter said to the man, “I say, it’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

  The man looked at the sky, which was a dull smoky gray, threatening to rain. He gave Peter a venomous look, spat on the ground, and turned back to his cart.

  And saw Tink.

  The man shot out his hand with the quickness and precision of one skilled in capturing small flying creatures. In an instant Tink was caught. Peter saw Tink’s head poking from the top of the man’s right fist as he heard a terrified burst of bells.

  Help! Peter, help!

  But Peter was already running toward the man, yelling, “Put her down! She’s mine!” he shouted. “Put her…UH.”

  As quickly as the man’s right hand had grabbed Tink, his left fist shot out, catching Peter on his cheek. Peter’s head snapped sideways, and he saw a flash of light. Then, without being aware of falling, he was lying on his back in the dirt, the right side of his face throbbing in pain.

  Above him he saw the man holding Tink’s struggling form close to his face, examining her. Then, after glancing down at Peter, he thrust her into the canary cage and closed the door.

  Peter, woozy, his face screaming in pain, struggled unsteadily to his feet.

  “Let her go!” he shouted at the man. “You can’t keep her! She’s not yours!”

  “Now she is,” the man said softly. “She’s all mine.” He stared at her, intrigued. “But what is she? Ain’t never seen one like her.”

  Peter lunged toward the cage again, but the man was too quick, and far too strong. He stepped in front of Peter and, grabbing him by his shoulders, hurled him to the ground again. The man then covered the canary cage with a piece of canvas, tying it tightly in place with a piece of rope. From within Peter could hear the muffled sound of Tink’s frantic appeals for help.

  Yet again he stood up, standing a few feet away out of the man’s reach.

  “Please,” he begged the man. “Please. Let her go.”

  “If you know what’s good for you,” said the man, taking a menacing step toward Peter, “you’ll get out of here.”

  “No!” shouted Peter, though he took a step back. “Let her go!”

  By now a half dozen other pet sellers had wandered over to find out what the noise was about. Peter turned to them.

  “He’s got my…my bird,” he said, pointing to the wiry man. “He stole my bird!”

  The man shook his head as he turned to the other sellers.

  He addressed them calmly, the voice of reason. “Do you believe the cheek of this one?” he said. “He tries to steal one of me canaries, and then he calls me the thief! Me, who’s worked this market for ten years and more!”

  The other sellers, all of whom knew the man, shook their heads at the sorry state of modern youth.

  “It’s not true!” said Peter desperately. “He’s lying!” Seeing that nobody in the crowd believed him, he ignored his throbbing cheek and hurled himself again toward the cage. The wiry man was waiting for him. He grinned with satisfaction as he drove his fist deep into Peter’s stomach.

  Peter went down on all fours, unable to breathe, the pain in his belly almost unendurable. The pet sellers roared with laughter. After a few moments Peter was able to draw in some air in small, tortured gasps. He raised his head, saw the wiry man laughing with the others, saw the canvas-covered cage, heard Tink’s faint, frantic calls from within.

  With agonizing effort, Peter staggered to his feet and again lunged forward, this time managing to reach the cage. He grabbed the handle just as the wiry man grabbed him, pulling back his fist to deliver another blow to Peter’s face.

  “Here now!” boomed a new, deeply authoritative voice. “What’s this all about?”

  The wiry man dropped his fist. He and Peter turned to find themselves facing a police officer, a large man sporting a luxuriant walrus moustache.

  “He’s a thief,” said the wiry man, pointing to Peter holding the cage. “Tried to steal me best canaries, he did.” The wiry man appealed to the other pet sellers, who nodded in sober confirmation.

  “A thief, is it?” said the bobby, grabbing Peter by his shirt collar. “Hand it over, then,” he said, taking Peter roughly by the arm.

  “But she’s mine!” said Peter. “I…OW!”

  He was silenced by a sharp poke in the ribs from the bobby’s stick.

  “You save your talk for the magistrate,” said the bobby sternly. “Not that he’ll want to hear it either.”

  This witticism drew a hearty laugh from the pet sellers.

  “Come along, then,” said the bobby. He yanked the birdcage away from Peter and handed it back to the seller.

  Peter? In the noise of the market, only Peter heard the muffled bells. He stepped toward the cage again, only to be jerked violently away by the bobby, who began dragging him down the street, away from the market. Peter tried to jump—hoping, in desperation, to fly his way free of this predicament—but the bobby’s massive hand held his arm in an iron grip.

  As they reached the end of Brick Lane, Peter took a last glance back at the pet seller, who was watching him, smiling, as he tied a second rope around his now-precious canary cage. The last thing Peter heard, as he lost sight of the market, was the distant, muffled, desperate sound of bells….

  CHAPTER 42

  THE STANDOFF

  THE JAIL CELL REEKED of vomit and menace. Peter sat in a corner, where he’d remained since the bobby had shoved him in there, trying his best not to be noticed by the others.

  There were eleven of them: three boys younger—or at least smaller—than Peter, five boys older, and three men. Peter wasn’t so worried abo
ut the men: all three were drunk and seemed mostly interested in sleeping, although one had awakened long enough to empty the contents of his stomach onto himself and onto the floor, filling the cell with an acrid stench before falling back into a deep, snoring slumber.

  No, it was the older boys that concerned Peter. They were already in the cell when he’d been brought in, and they seemed quite familiar with it, almost comfortable there. They apparently knew each other, or had at least formed into a hierarchy, as packs of males do. Their leader was not the tallest among them, but definitely the broadest: a brutish, muscular boy the others called Rafe. He amused himself by tormenting the smaller boys, punching them and threatening to stuff them headfirst into the disgustingly full wooden bucket that served as the cell’s communal toilet.

  Peter desperately hoped that he would not have to use that bucket; the thought repulsed him. He hoped, too, that Rafe would continue ignoring him. Peter kept his eyes cast down, not meeting anyone’s gaze. His mood had descended to a level below despair: he had no idea how to get himself out of this, let alone rescue Tink or find Molly in time to warn her of the danger she was in. He had no hope at all. His stomach ached, and his swollen jaw throbbed with agonizing pain.

  “You,” said a menacing voice.

  Peter looked up, and his heart sank at the sight of Rafe’s thick form looming over him.

  “What?” he said.

  “You got anything for me?” said Rafe. He squatted in front of Peter, his wide, grinning face only a foot away.

  Peter said nothing. Why did everyone in this city want something from him?

  Casually, Rafe reached his meaty hand out. Peter flinched as Rafe grabbed a handful Peter’s filthy, torn shirt.

  Rafe made a disappointed face. “Can’t use these pitiful rags,” he said. Then he brightened as he spied the gold chain around Peter’s neck. Peter inwardly berated himself for not having thought to hide it.

  “Here now,” Rafe said, pulling the chain out and fingering the locket. “What’s this?”

  Peter pushed Rafe’s hand away and jumped to his feet, moving away from Rafe along the wall. He couldn’t give up the locket. No matter what, he must not let that happen.