Peter and the Shadow Thieves

by Ridley Pearson Dave Barry

  And it ain’t a man, thought Slank.

  CHAPTER 7

  AN ALLY

  “SO,” SAID FIGHTING PRAWN. “You got your friend into trouble.”

  The Mollusk chief looked at Peter with piercing dark eyes, made all the blacker by their contrast with Fighting Prawn’s flowing, snow-white hair.

  “But it’s not my fault!” said Peter, panting, still out of breath from his frantic flight back across the mountain to the Mollusk compound. “James followed me to the pirates! I told him not to, but…”

  Peter’s tongue was stilled by Fighting Prawn’s stern stare, a look so disconcerting that Peter had to turn away.

  “He followed you,” the chief said, “because he wanted to join in your game. Because you boasted about how much fun you were having taunting the pirates. Isn’t that right?”

  Peter, still looking away, nodded. He was grateful that Tinker Bell, for once, was silent, though she listened with approval to the lecture as she perched on Peter’s shoulder.

  “What have I told you about taunting the pirates?” said Fighting Prawn. “What have I told you a dozen times and more?”

  “It’s foolish,” Peter answered softly. “And dangerous.”

  “That’s right,” said Fighting Prawn. “It’s a misuse of the gifts you’ve been given. I can protect you on this side of the island; the captain won’t come for you here. But on the other side, you’ve got the captain and his men, any of whom would be happy to slit your throat. And you’ve got Mister Grin running loose, with a taste for human flesh. There’s no reason to go over there except to look for trouble. But you chose to look for it. And now you’ve found it.”

  Peter’s lip quivered. A tear slid down his cheek; Tink reached out and gently wiped it away.

  “Listen, boy,” said Fighting Prawn, his voice softer now. “You have a good heart. You have great courage. You fought the pirate. You saved my life. For that you will always have my friendship and protection. But you’re still a boy, and you must learn to become a man.”

  Peter looked up, about to say something; then he closed his mouth, thinking better of it.

  “I know,” said Fighting Prawn. “Because of the change in you”—he pointed to the golden locket that hung at Peter’s throat—“you will never grow old. You will always have the body of a boy. But in here”—now Fighting Prawn touched Peter’s forehead—“in your mind, you must become a man, because the other boys need you. You are their leader. They trust you. You must become worthy of their trust.”

  “But it’s too late,” said Peter, a flood of tears welling from his eyes now, streaming down his cheeks. “I’ve let them down. Hook has James. He’ll kill him if I don’t surrender myself.”

  “You do,” said Fighting Prawn, “and he’ll kill you.”

  “But it’s my fault. You said so yourself. It’s my fault.” He looked down, sobbing, his tears spattering the dusty ground. Tink fluttered down and caught one in midair. In her hand, it turned into a tiny diamond. She showed it to Peter; ordinarily, a trick like this would have delighted him. But now he only shook his head.

  Fighting Prawn put a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  “All right, boy,” he said. “We will see what we can do to get your friend back.” He glanced toward a small group of Mollusk warriors who stood a respectful distance away, watching. With a tiny movement of his head, he summoned them over.

  Peter looked up. “Are you going to attack the pirates?” he asked. “Because Hook says he’ll kill James if you do.”

  “I’m sure he would,” said Fighting Prawn. “I’m sure he means to kill him anyway.”

  “But,” said Peter, “he said you could send two savag—I mean, warriors—and they could bring James back.”

  Fighting Prawn smiled a thin, mirthless smile. “He means to kill the savages, too,” he said. “He’ll have men hidden nearby. The instant he has you in hand, you’re all dead.”

  “So what can we do?” said Peter.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Fighting Prawn. “Can you possibly fly your friend out?”

  “No,” said Peter. “Hook says he won’t let go of James until he can grab me. And even if James and I were both free, I’m not sure I can lift him. I’ve tried flying him before, and I usually go all wobbly and come right back down.”

  Fighting Prawn pondered for a moment, then said: “You say Hook told you to surrender yourself next to the spring?”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “The spring at the edge of the clearing.”

  “I see,” said Fighting Prawn thoughtfully. He turned and said something to one of the warriors in the Mollusk language—a mixture of grunts and clicks, sounding very odd to the English ear. It always sounded especially odd to Peter when Fighting Prawn spoke it; he was accustomed to the Mollusk chief’s impeccable English, learned from his years as a forced laborer aboard British navy ships.

  The Mollusk warrior answered Fighting Prawn at some length, Fighting Prawn listening intently. After another brief exchange, he turned to Peter.

  “Just as I thought,” he said. “That spring rises from a cavern. There’s a tunnel leading to the cavern underground—a tunnel just wide enough for a person to fit through. But it’s a long way from the spring to the tunnel mouth. A very long way. And it’s all under water.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Peter. “Are you suggesting that James and I could swim out of there? Because I’m not much of a swimmer, and James can barely swim at all.”

  “No, it’s too far for you,” said Fighting Prawn. “But we may be able to use the tunnel to disappoint Captain Hook. We must make some preparations, and quickly.” He grunt-clicked something to the warriors, a long and complicated set of instructions. They listened closely, occasionally smiling (Why are they smiling? Peter wondered). When the chief finished, they trotted off.

  “Now,” said Fighting Prawn. “We need to enlist an ally.”

  “An ally?” said Peter.

  “Yes,” said Fighting Prawn. “We need somebody who’s reliable. Trustworthy. And brave.”

  Tink flew between the two men, chiming loudly and pointing to herself.

  “Somebody who’s a very good swimmer,” added Fighting Prawn.

  Tink, deflated, went back to Peter’s shoulder.

  “But,” said Peter, “I can’t…I mean, none of the boys can…” Then he stopped, finally understanding who Fighting Prawn meant.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Fighting Prawn. “You have a big favor to ask.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE MISSION

  TWELVE HARD MEN, KILLERS ALL, slipped over the side of Le Fantome and clambered down rope ladders to the two longboats, where Nerezza awaited them. Sheets of fog rose from the water, hovering at eye height between the ship and the shore, broken into patches and wisps by an intermittent breeze.

  Ahead of the raiding party, a dory slid through the water, manned only by a lone oarsman, and Le Fantome’s mysterious black-cloaked passenger sitting in the bow.

  The unhappy oarsman was Slank, ordered by Nerezza to take the passenger—Lord Ombra, Nerezza had called him—ashore. Slank had protested: Lord or no lord, he didn’t want to be alone in the boat with him. But Nerezza had given him no choice.

  Slank pulled on the oars, his back to the shore and his unwelcome passenger. The night air was warm, but Slank felt a chill through his back, a chill to his bones. He’d felt it from the moment Ombra descended to the dory. Ombra hadn’t exactly climbed down the rope set out for him, nor had he slid. It was more like he’d oozed down the rope, Slank thought, like harbor mud dripping down an anchor line.

  Slank didn’t want to think about that. He wanted only to get to the island and get out of this boat.

  Lazy waves lapped the shore, on this, the leeward side of the island. Slank pulled toward that sound, wondering why Nerezza had assigned him this task.

  “Steady on,” came Ombra’s voice, a deep groan that sent a shudder slitheri
ng down Slank’s spinee Moonlight broke through the swirling mist. Slank leaned sideways to study the surface of the water, looking for signs of the hated mermaids. He would never admit it, but he was terrified of the demon she-fish. As he moved, his moon-cast shadow moved with him, playing across the small boat.

  Slank glanced toward the ship, saw the longboats pushing off. What Slank didn’t see was the strange behavior of his shadow behind him. As if taking on a life of its own, it began to stretch and shift, slithering toward the bow, toward Ombra.

  Slank felt suddenly light-headed. Behind him, he heard Ombra’s wheezing groan, but in a low murmur, not addressed to him, as if Ombra were talking to himself. But then Slank heard a second voice…a voice eerily familiar to him, a voice so familiar that it was as if…

  Ombra spoke again, this time to Slank. “So,” he groaned, “you’re afraid of the she-fish….”

  But how…

  “I ain’t afraid of any kind of fish, nor anything else on this island,” Slank said aloud. His thoughts were quite different: You’d be afraid, too, Lord whoever you are, if you’d tangled with them fish in this water like I did. And you might not find that flying boy so easy to deal with, neither.

  “I see,” groaned Ombra. “You think the flying boy might give me trouble, as he did you?”

  Slank froze, halting the oars in midstroke. It’s like he hears me thinking.

  “Exactly,” groaned Ombra. “Row.”

  Slank resumed rowing. The moon passed behind a cloud; the sea went dark again. Slank lost sight of the longboats following.

  “They’re fierce, them she-fish,” Slank said defensively. “Teeth like razors. And cunning…”

  “How many she-fish?” All business.

  “Were a sea full of ’em. Circling my dory. Five…six…ten. Taking bites out of the transom. You ain’t never seen anything like it.”

  “Indeed, I’ve seen a great many things you’ve not dreamed of, Mister Slank. We needn’t concern ourselves over a few she-fish. Nor pirates. Nor a flying boy. Nor the little girl, the daughter of the Starcatcher.” Ombra hissed the beginning of “Starcatcher,” a hiss of disdain.

  “We concern ourselves with one thing, one thing only,” continued Ombra. “To retrieve the starstuff you left behind.”

  Slank started to say something but thought better of it.

  “Wise decision, Mister Slank. Now, with your knowledge of the island, and those men in the longboats, and my special…capabilities, we should have no trouble carrying out our mission. But you, Mister Slank, must be a help to us, not a hindrance. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said Slank, through gritted teeth.

  “That means you must remember that our purpose here, our only purpose, is to get the starstuff, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is not to gain revenge.”

  Slank stiffened.

  “That’s right,” said Ombra. “I know of your plans for the boy.”

  Slank said nothing.

  “You will not waste time pursuing your personal agenda, Slank. You will not jeopardize our mission. You will obey my orders. Failure to do so would be very, very unpleasant for you, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Here we are.”

  The dory was lifted by a small wave and came down to rest on the beach. Slank never felt his passenger move, heard no splash of boots in the water; but when he turned, Ombra was gliding up the beach.

  The moonlight broke through again, though only briefly. Ombra glided swiftly away from the advancing light—Like he’s scared of it, thought Slank—into the darkness of the jungle.

  Slank clambered out of the boat and hauled the dory out of the water. He looked up the beach, now pale white in the moonlight. His eyes traced the path Ombra had taken across the wet sand, and he felt the chill again.

  There were no footprints.

  CHAPTER 9

  A TASTY MEAL LOST

  PETER STUMBLED DOWN the dark jungle path, tripping over what seemed like every rock, root, and vine. Behind him followed a young Mollusk warrior named Running Snail; ahead of him went Fierce Clam, second in seniority only to Fighting Prawn himself. The two Mollusk warriors, unlike Peter, moved effortlessly no matter how steep, twisting, or muddy the terrain.

  At one point Fierce Clam disappeared altogether in the gloom ahead. A warning chime sounded in Peter’s right ear.

  “I know, Tink,” he snapped. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  Peter would have preferred to fly, but Fighting Prawn had insisted that he remain on the ground with the two warriors, ensuring that the three arrive at the pirate encampment together. And so Peter stumbled forward.

  I hope this works, he thought. The plan had sounded foolproof when Fighting Prawn had explained it back in the village. But now, out here in the thick of the jungle, enveloped in darkness, approaching Hook’s camp on foot, Peter felt less confident. In his mind he pictured the pirate’s sharp hook slicing through the mango. He also knew only too well that the giant, hungry crocodile roamed this side of the island, looking for an easy meal. For an instant, fear seized his belly, and he considered turning back. But then, remembering James, he forged ahead.

  Lost in thought, he almost collided with Fierce Clam, who had stopped on the path. They were nearly at the pirate encampment. Now the three of them—Peter and the two Mollusk warriors—exchanged looks: Ready?

  Ready.

  Fierce Clam gave a signal, pointing upward. Peter nodded, and flying now, raised himself a few feet off the ground. The two Mollusks moved beneath him and helped Peter adjust his sailcloth trousers and eel-skin shoes. When they were all three satisfied with the results, Peter, with Tinker Bell hovering close by, soared up through the tree canopy into the moonlit sky.

  He drifted a few feet forward, saw the clearing with the hulking rough shape of the pirate fort at the far end. His eyes scanned the clearing, and then he saw the two shapes, one large, one small.

  Hook holding James.

  “Peter!” James squealed in a fear-squeezed voice that tore at Peter’s heart.

  “It’s all right, James,” answered Peter. “I’m here.”

  “Yes, James,” said Hook, in a rasping, ugly mimic of Peter’s high-pitched voice. “Your heroic friend is here to rescue you.”

  Peter swooped closer. The pirate had his good hand firmly gripped around James’s left arm, leaving his hook free. As Hook had promised, they were alone—or so it appeared. Peter had little doubt that Hook’s men were hiding in the thick vegetation surrounding the clearing.

  For now, that did not concern Peter. What did concern him was that Hook and James were standing too far from the spring. The spring lay to Hook’s left, at the edge of a clearing. In the moonlight, its clear water welled up from underground, forming a round pool perhaps six feet across; from the pool a small stream trickled off into the jungle.

  I have to lure them closer to the spring, thought Peter. He drifted forward until he was almost directly over Hook’s head. He heard James whimper as Hook’s grip tightened on the boy’s arm.

  “No tricks, boy,” growled Hook. “If you try anything—like making your little friend here fly—he’ll have me hook in him before you can think about it, understand?”

  “I understand,” said Peter. He hitched up his trousers and drifted a bit closer to the spring. Come on, Hook. Follow me.

  “But did you come alone, boy?” asked Hook. “Where are the sav—ah, there they are.”

  Fierce Clam and Running Snail had slipped silently into the clearing. They stood calmly at the jungle’s edge, watching the pirate, who moved his hook near James’s throat. He addressed Peter.

  “Do they understand the agreement, boy? If they approach me, if they take so much as a step toward me, your friend is in pieces.”

  “They understand,” said Peter.

  “Excellent,” said Hook. “Now, here’s how we do this, boy. You lower yourself to me, nice and easy. When you’re wit
hin reach, I let go of your friend.”

  “All right,” said Peter. Slowly, he drifted lower, but he also moved closer to the spring. Come on….

  Peter’s legs hung close to Hook now, his shoes just out of the pirate’s reach. Hook, still gripping James firmly, eagerly edged closer, looking at Peter with hatred in his eyes. Peter glanced over at the spring—Am I close enough?—and drifted just a bit nearer to it. His legs dipped a bit lower, the right one now within Hook’s grasp.

  With a ferocious roar fueled by months of pent-up fury, Hook released James and, with a snake-quick motion, latched hard onto Peter’s leg. “GOT YOU NOW, BOY!” he bellowed in triumph. Then: “GET THEM, MEN!”

  In an instant, a dozen pirates sprang from their concealment and into the clearing, racing toward the Mollusk warriors. Hook, gripping the leg of the boy, felt a surge of elation. His plan had worked. At last, at long last, he had the boy. The hated boy was his!

  And then, in the next instant, Hook saw it all go wrong. His first inkling of trouble came when he yanked on Peter’s leg to pull him down, still undecided as to whether he would kill him then and there, or take his time, make it last for the pleasure of it.

  He yanked, and the leg came down—both legs came down, in fact—but not the boy.

  The boy was still hovering up there.

  Hook looked down at the leg in his hand, still inside the trousers, eel-skin shoes still sticking out the bottom….

  Long trousers. Shoes.

  The boy didn’t wear long trousers or shoes.

  His triumph turning to horror, Hook looked up to see Peter wearing his customary cutoff shorts. Peter was grinning as he demonstrated to Hook how he’d tucked his legs up in front of him inside the trousers that Hook was now holding. Bellowing in rage, the captain slashed his hook through those trousers, which was an unfortunate decision, as the Mollusks had fashioned the false legs using rancid fish guts wrapped in animal skin. These foul innards exploded all over Hook, filling the air with putrid fumes, which mingled with…