Peter and the Shadow Thieves

by Ridley Pearson Dave Barry

  “Hello, George,” said Molly.

  “Molly, why don’t you entertain George?” said Louise. “I need to speak to Cook about dinner.” With a twinkle in her eyes, she left the room.

  “So,” said George, not quite looking at Molly. “Hullo.”

  “You said that already,” said Molly.

  “Ah,” said George. “So I did.”

  George was a bit older than Molly, but they’d known each other since they were very small, as their families traveled in the same social circles. George’s home was in Ennismore Gardens, just across the park from Molly’s. As children they had played together for many happy hours. Now, however, they were entering the awkward stage between childhood and adulthood, and although they still enjoyed each other’s company, they were unsure how to, or whether to, express that enjoyment.

  This had been particularly true in the months since Molly had returned from her eventful trip to sea. George had sensed a change in Molly; he had tried more than once to ask her about her experiences on the ship, only to have Molly quickly change the subject. So he had given up on that line of inquiry. But he continued to call on the Aster house regularly.

  After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he said, “So, who’s the bruiser lurking out front? He gave me quite the hard look as I walked up.”

  “That’s not a bruiser,” said Molly. “That’s Mister Hodge.”

  “All right, then,” said George. “And who is Mister Hodge?”

  “He’s a friend of my father’s.”

  George studied her for a moment.

  “Is your father here?” he said.

  “No,” said Molly. “He’s…he’s away.”

  “I see,” said George. “And your father’s…friend…he stands outside all day?”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “He does.”

  “I see,” he said.

  Another uncomfortable silence, finally broken by George.

  “Look, Molly,” he said. “Do you…I mean, are you…I mean…is there something wrong?”

  “Wrong? Of course not,” said Molly. “What would be wrong? There’s nothing wrong.”

  “Because if there is,” said George, “and if I could—”

  “There’s nothing wrong,” said Molly.

  More silence.

  “All right,” said George. “I just thought that…I mean…Never mind.”

  Molly appeared on the verge of saying something, but she merely nodded. This was followed by more silence and increasing discomfort on both sides.

  “All right, then,” said George finally. “I suppose I should be going, then.”

  Again Molly appeared on the verge of saying something; again she held her tongue.

  “All right, then,” repeated George. “Good-bye, Molly.”

  “Good-bye,” she said, and they parted, both of them feeling quite unhappy, neither of them sure why.

  Jenna showed George to the door, and Molly went upstairs to her room, which was on the third floor at the front of the house, with a window looking out on the boulevard. Molly sat in the window seat and watched George trudge away, not looking back. He passed a larger person coming up the sidewalk toward the Aster house. Molly saw that it was a bobby—a Metropolitan police officer—wearing the blue uniform and distinctive domed helmet. She noted that it was not Constable Calvin, the stout, red-faced, heavily whiskered man who had walked this beat since before Molly was born, but a taller man, hawk-nosed, clean-shaven, whose uniform seemed too small for him, the frock-coat sleeves barely reaching his wrists.

  As Molly watched, the bobby drew alongside the corner of the Aster property, where he passed Mr. Hodge, who was beginning his hourly circuit of the perimeter of the Aster grounds. Mr. Hodge nodded politely. The bobby did not respond, and in fact barely glanced at Mr. Hodge. Molly saw that this reaction, or lack of reaction, puzzled Mr. Hodge; he turned and watched the bobby’s back for a moment. Then he shrugged and turned right, heading around the side of the house.

  And because he had gone around the side, Mr. Hodge did not see what the bobby did next, although Molly, watching from her bedroom, did see it.

  The bobby stopped in front of the house and looked in all directions, as if checking to see that nobody was watching him. Then he looked toward the Aster house, peering intently; Molly figured he was looking toward the sitting room.

  What is he looking at? wondered Molly.

  What he was looking at, unseen by Molly, was a hand, held close to the sitting-room window. The hand belonged to Jenna, the maid. It was holding up three fingers.

  One for each guard.

  From her window, Molly thought she saw the bobby’s head give just the slightest hint of a nod, but she wasn’t sure. The bobby then turned and walked away in the same direction from which he had come.

  I wonder what that was about, thought Molly.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE SCUTTLEBUTT

  PETER HAD NEVER FELT hungrier, or thirstier. He’d been awakened from his restless sleep by the ache of his empty belly. His lips were dry and cracked; his throat was parched.

  The only good thing about the situation, as far as Peter could tell, was that since the incident with the young sailor that morning, no crewman had climbed near his hiding place. Peter had some experience at sea; he knew that as long as the wind held and the ship maintained its present course, the sailors would have no reason to do anything to the sail where he’d taken refuge. With any luck, he could be undisturbed here for days.

  But he had to find food and water. Especially water. He had to find some soon. Unfortunately, he dared not venture out of his hiding place until darkness fell.

  The afternoon hours passed slowly and uncomfortably; Peter felt increasingly cramped, hot, and sweaty in his tight canvas confinement. Finally, finally, the sky began to darken. At last the sun went down, and the welcome coolness of night enveloped the ship.

  Peter wriggled his way toward the top of the sail. Tinker Bell poked her tiny head over the edge and looked down.

  “What do you see, Tink?” Peter whispered.

  Soft bells. Some men working. Some talking. Nobody looking this way.

  “Is there a place where I can land down there, where they won’t see me?” whispered Peter.

  A pause as Tink scanned the deck. Then: Yes. At the back. I’ll show you.

  Tink fluttered out of the sail and hovered. Peter, moving stiffly, poked his head up from the canvas and looked around. The moon was not yet up; the rigging was dark. Peter realized that he probably would not be spotted even if somebody on deck did happen to look up. He crawled out on the yard and looked to where Tink was pointing: a darkened area of the deck toward the stern, on the port side, alongside the raised poop deck where the helmsman stood at the wheel. Peter saw that, if he crouched, he could not be seen from the helm. But he would have to be alert for anybody coming back along the port rail.

  “Okay,” he whispered to Tink. “Let’s go.”

  In an instant, Tink, who could fly faster than Peter could see, darted down to the deck. Peter swooped right behind her, enjoying the swoosh of the cool air on his face. He crouched on the deck next to Tink, listening for a shout that would mean somebody had seen him.

  Nothing.

  “All right,” he said. “Now I need to find water.”

  Soft bells from Tink. I know where the water is.

  “You do?” whispered Peter. “Where?”

  A barrel, in the middle of the ship. The sailors get water from it with a big spoon.

  “The scuttlebutt!” whispered Peter. He remembered the term from his time aboard the ill-fated scow Never Land. The crew often gathered by the scuttlebutt—a water barrel with a wooden ladle—to slake their thirst and trade gossip.

  “Can I get to it?” whispered Peter. “Will I be seen?”

  Tink flitted forward, keeping close to the deck, then flitted back with the bad news.

  There are two men nearby.

  “How near?”

  This
near. In less than a second, Tink flew fifteen feet aft-ward along the rail, then back. If the men were only that far from the scuttlebutt, they would surely see Peter.

  “Oh,” said Peter, despondent. His throat felt more parched than ever. Since Tink had mentioned the scuttlebutt, he’d almost tasted the water.

  Wait here, said Tink. She flitted forward again, returning about a minute later, looking frustrated.

  “What happened?” said Peter.

  The spoon, she said. I can’t lift it. It’s tied to the barrel, anyway.

  Despite his discomfort, Peter had to smile, touched by Tink’s effort to carry the big ladle back to him.

  “It’s all right, Tink,” he said. “Thanks for trying.”

  Tink shook her head. I’ll find something smaller, she said.

  Peter looked around, but saw nothing that could be used to carry water. Small objects were not left lying about on a ship’s deck, as they inevitably were blown overboard.

  “Tink,” Peter whispered, “I don’t think—”

  But Tink was gone again…this time over the side of the ship. Peter wondered what she could possibly be up to, but he had no choice other than to wait, which he did for several minutes, before Tink reappeared, dripping wet, proudly holding…a shell.

  “Where’d you get that?” whispered Peter, not believing that Tink—even Tink—could have swum down to the seafloor.

  From the side of the ship, she said.

  Peter examined the shell. Sure enough, it was a barnacle shell. But how…

  “How did you get it free from the ship?” he said. Barnacles were notoriously hard to remove from a hull; they clung with astonishing strength, as any sailor would agree after spending a few unhappy hours trying to scrape them off.

  I talked to it, said Tink.

  “You talked to it?” Peter whispered. He was about to express skepticism, but he realized that if anybody could talk a barnacle into letting go of a ship, it was Tink.

  Wait here, she said. Clasping the shell, she zipped forward.

  A few moments later she was coming back, flying cautiously, holding the shell in front of her, frowning in concentration as she struggled to avoid spilling a drop. She reached Peter and handed him the shell. He brought it eagerly to his lips. It was only an ounce, maybe less, and it smelled of barnacle, but it was the sweetest thing Peter had ever tasted. He swished it around in his parched mouth and swallowed, then licked the shell.

  “Thanks, Tink,” he whispered.

  I’ll get more, she said, taking the shell.

  “What about the sailors?” Peter said.

  They’re looking the other way.

  “Be careful,” said Peter, but she was already gone.

  Tink made a dozen more trips, two dozen, slaking Peter’s thirst an ounce at a time. Each time, her route to the scuttlebutt took her over a certain spot on the deck. Each time she passed over that spot, she felt an odd sensation. At first she disregarded it, but it became more pronounced with each trip, until she found herself swerving around the spot. But still she sensed it, a distinctly unpleasant feeling.

  A chill.

  She didn’t mention it to Peter; she wasn’t sure what it was, and she didn’t want to appear afraid. So she avoided the spot as best she could, bringing Peter his water until finally he insisted that she stop before somebody saw her.

  “That was wonderful, Tink,” he whispered. “Thanks again.”

  You’re welcome.

  “Now let’s find some food,” said Peter. “I’m starving.”

  Directly beneath the spot on the deck that had troubled Tink was the small, tomb-dark inner cabin where Lord Ombra spent most of his time on the ship. Ombra was there now. Each time Tink had passed overhead, he too had sensed something.

  He rose, glided to the door, and opened it. The gloom in the passageway told him night had fully fallen. It would be dark on the deck.

  Ombra would go hunting.

  CHAPTER 22

  TUBBY TED’S DISCOVERY

  TUBBY TED HAD EATEN three bananas for breakfast, after first eating two coconuts, a mango, and something that looked and tasted a lot like bread, which the Mollusks made out of seeds and pounded grass. They were nice enough to drop a couple loaves by each day, to keep the boys from starving to death.

  Tubby Ted was in no danger of that. He was more in danger of bursting. But he decided that what he needed was another three, or perhaps another five, bananas. The boys had eaten all the ripe ones from the trees near their hut, so Ted wandered off into the jungle a ways, until he spotted a tree with a nice-looking bunch. He was searching for a stick to knock them down with when…

  WHOOMP!

  Suddenly, Ted was not standing: he was sitting on the ground. And one of his legs was missing. The left one, to be precise. This was very upsetting for a moment, until Ted realized that he could still feel the leg, but it had gone into the ground somehow.

  Quicksand! he thought. The Mollusks had warned the boys that there was quicksand on the island; that it would trap a person and slowly suck him under. The boys had asked why, if it acted slowly, was it called quicksand. The Mollusks had replied that, as far as they were concerned, most English names for things were silly. The word that they used for quicksand was a deep grunt that translated roughly to “uh-oh.”

  But this was not quicksand: when Tubby Ted wiggled his left foot, it moved freely, and it wasn’t wet. He tried to pull it free, to stand up, but could not. So he started to dig. But as he dug, to his surprise, most of the dirt didn’t come up in his hand: instead, it disappeared, falling away down into the hole with his leg.

  In a few moments, Ted had the hole large enough to pull his leg free. The hole was big enough for Ted to stick his head down and take a look inside. Thus, when James came along, searching for his missing friend, he saw only the backside of Tubby Ted sticking up, like a plump ostrich in shorts.

  “What are you doing?” James called out.

  Tubby Ted pulled his head out, clumps of dirt sticking to his hair, his sweaty face smeared with dirt and mud. A bright orange-and-green three-inch centipede dangled from his left ear, like an earring.

  “Oh, hullo, James,” said Ted. “I was looking for bananas.”

  “Under the ground?” said James, reaching out and batting away the centipede.

  “No, I was going to get them from up there”—he pointed up at the bananas—“and I fell into this hole here.” He pointed down. “So then I looked into it and I found a much bigger hole. A very big hole. It has lava walls and a dirt floor.”

  “Really?” said James. He stuck his head into the hole, looked around, then pulled his head out, his eyes wide.

  “That is a very big hole,” he said.

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “More like a small cave than a big hole.”

  “Much more like it.” Tubby Ted was proud of his discovery, though he had no idea why James seemed so impressed.

  James stuck his head down inside again, then looked back up at Tubby Ted. “Do you know what you just found, Tubby Ted?” he said.

  “I do, James. I absolutely do!”

  “What?”

  Tubby Ted’s face fell. “I’m not exactly sure. I thought you were going to tell me.”

  “I will,” James said, turning and trotting back toward the hut. “But we have to tell the others!”

  “Tell them what?” said Tubby Ted.

  “We have work to do!” said James, now almost out of sight.

  Ted took one last longing glance up at his banana bunch. Then he started trotting after James, wondering what, exactly, he had found.

  CHAPTER 23

  A SECOND VISIT

  MOLLY DIDN’T KNOW WHY she awoke. It was late at night. Her room was dark and cold, the fire only dead ash now.

  She lay in her bed, listening: the house was still.

  But something had awakened her.

  She rose from her bed and padded in bare, cold feet to her window. Looking ou
t, she first saw only blackness, and then the faint glowing sphere of the gas lamp on the street, fighting its lonely, losing battle to illuminate the all-enshrouding fog. She looked left and, by straining her eyes, could just make out the large, reassuring form of Mr. Cadigan at his usual nighttime post at the end of the front walk.

  Then she looked to the right, past the streetlight, and gasped as she saw two shapes emerge from the fog. They were illuminated only for a moment, but that was enough for her to see that it was the same Metropolitan police officer who had walked by earlier that evening. With him was a man Molly didn’t recognize—tall and thin, like the bobby, but apparently a civilian; he wore an overcoat and top hat, not the frock coat and domed helmet of the Metropolitan Police. Molly did not get a good look at his face, but he had the bearing of a gentleman.

  Odd, thought Molly. Why is that man with the bobby? And why is the bobby coming by so late?

  Straining to see through the swirling fog, she watched the two men approach Mr. Cadigan, who was also keeping an eye on them. They passed directly in front of him, but neither of them looked at him, which also struck Molly as odd. Not even so much as a nod. Not terribly friendly, she thought. She saw Mr. Cadigan’s head turn and follow as he watched them pass; he kept looking in their direction until they vanished into the fog.

  Molly watched out the window a bit longer but saw nothing except gloom and dark. Finally, shivering, she slipped back into bed and snuggled under the comforter. She thought about the bobby and the man with him. She pondered whether she had reason to be troubled by this. Was she just being a scared little goose? After all, there were thousands of bobbies in London. Why should she be surprised to see an unfamiliar one walk past her house?

  But why had he made a second visit? Why had he looked at her house earlier in the day? And why was he with a gentleman so late at night?

  She thought about sharing these concerns with her mother. But then she remembered her mother’s words to her earlier in the day: We must be brave.

  Molly decided she was being a little goose, letting her fears run away with her mind. She would force herself to be brave. She wouldn’t say anything about it. No reason to make trouble where there was none.