And so, after some tossing about, Molly went back to sleep.
CHAPTER 24
THE STOWAWAY
SOFT BELLS CHIMED in Peter’s ear, and a welcome message: I know where there’s food.
“You do?” Peter whispered, squatting in the darkness at the stern of the ship. “Where?”
Tink pointed down toward Peter’s bare feet and the dark wooden deck.
Under there.
Peter sighed. “I know there’s food down there, Tink. But there are men down there, too. They’ll see me.”
I can bring you food. I brought you water.
“It’ll be too heavy for you, Tink,” he whispered.
Tink pouted, but didn’t argue; she knew she wouldn’t be able to fly with anything much bigger than a grape.
“I’m going to go forward a bit,” said Peter. “Maybe we can find a safe way belowdecks.”
I’ll go first.
“All right, but be careful.”
They won’t see me.
Tink flitted forward, staying low, about knee-height. Peter crawled after her on hands and knees, grateful that the night sky was cloudy and dark. From somewhere above him and to his right he heard the murmur of two men talking, and although he could not make out the words, the exchange carried the bored tone of sailors passing time. Tink darted ahead, then zipped back to Peter.
There’s an opening up there, and stairs going down.
“Where?” he whispered.
Just past the water barrel.
“What’s down the stairs?”
In a blink and a half, Tink flew off and returned.
A hallway.
“Is there anybody in the hallway?”
No, but there’s food. I can smell it. It’s coming from a door at the end of the hall.
Food! Peter felt his mouth water. Now, if he could just get down there…
“What about the men?” he whispered.
Tink flitted ahead, then back.
They’re looking the other way, she said. Out at the water on the other side.
“All right, then,” whispered Peter. “Let’s go.”
Following Tink, Peter crawled silently forward to the edge of the boxlike companionway that contained the stairwell, protecting it from rain and weather. Tink stuck her tiny head around the corner, then beckoned him on. He crawled out into the open, looking to his right. As Tink had said, Peter saw two sailors on the far side of the deck, leaning against the rail and looking out to sea. Tink darted into the shadowy darkness and down the steep stairs. Peter followed right behind.
At exactly the moment when Tink and Peter disappeared below, a dark form oozed up from a companionway on the starboard side of the ship. Instantly the deck air cooled. The two sailors gossiping at the rail felt it and fell silent, their bodies rigid, their eyes fixed on the waves, both of them silently praying that Ombra would glide past, would leave them alone.
But the dark form stopped directly behind them. Sweating now despite the chill, they stared at the water for thirty agonizing seconds before the silence was broken by Ombra’s harsh groan.
“Have you men seen anything unusual?”
“N…N…NO, sir,” said one of the men, the other being too scared to speak.
“Nothing strange on deck?” groaned Ombra.
“N…No, sir.”
“How long have you been here?”
“The whole watch, sir.”
There was another uncomfortable silence. Then Ombra glided on. The men slumped with relief, then cautiously turned their heads to look. Ombra moved along the deck in a deliberate manner, his cloaked head tracking slowly back and forth.
“What’s he doing?” whispered one of the two.
“Dunno, mate,” answered the other. “But it can’t be no good. He looks like…a hunting dog.”
“Aye, that he does,” said the first. “Like a bloodhound on a trail.”
At the bottom of the companionway, Peter and Tink found themselves in a dark corridor. It appeared to be empty, but Peter was nervous. On deck, he could escape by simply launching himself off the ship and flying away. Down here, flying was not an option. He could easily be trapped.
“Where’s the food?” he whispered.
This way, said Tink, darting down the corridor, a tiny glowing comet in the gloom. She stopped in front of a closed door on the left side. Ahead, the corridor continued twenty more feet, then turned sharply left.
Peter tiptoed to the door and put his ear against it, listening. Nothing. He turned the iron latch and gently pushed the door open; it creaked a bit, but not so as to draw attention amid the thousand other creaks and groans of a ship tossing and moving at sea.
Peter stepped inside: the room was pitch black. But as Tink had reported, the smell of food was strong.
“Tink,” he whispered. “I need some light.”
Tink flitted through the doorway and, with a frown of concentration, increased her glow from the level of a candle to that of a chandelier. As the room filled with light, Peter looked around: he saw a dozen or so wooden barrels, some iron pots, and…
…a man.
The man was not three feet away, sleeping in a hammock slung from the ceiling. He was a portly fellow; the cook, Peter assumed. His blood froze as the man stirred. But the sleeper was merely shifting position, and did not wake.
Peter looked at the barrels. They were all closed, to keep the rats out. He approached the nearest barrel and ran his fingers around the rim. The barrelhead was sealed tight. He tried another, then another, then another; all were sealed. But on the next barrel his luck changed: the barrelhead moved. It had not been secured.
Peter glanced back at the cook. Still sleeping. Working the fingers of both hands under the barrelhead, he tugged, and it came free.
Ombra, the dark and deadly bloodhound, worked his way forward along the starboard side, almost to the bow of the ship. He was not pleased. He’d found nothing. Whatever, whoever, he was after was not to be found to starboard.
He slithered across to the port side and, still moving his head back and forth, began making his way toward the stern. Suddenly, he stopped. He could feel it now: a warmth, a glowing—something foreign to him. He moved on, more quickly now.
Tink made a soft sound—not so much a word as a feeling.
Danger.
Peter looked away from the barrel, from which he had been pulling pieces of salt pork, which he stuffed into his shirt. He mouthed a question, making no sound.
“What?”
Tink crossed her arms, as if cold, and shivered.
I don’t know, she said. Something bad. Coming.
Peter searched her face and saw an expression he’d never seen there before: fear.
Ombra’s dark shape slithered sternward along the port rail. As he neared the companionway that Peter and Tink had gone down, he slowed, then stopped. The dark hood peered down into the companionway for a moment.
Then the cloak glided forward, and started to descend.
Tink’s sound was urgent now.
Hurry!
“All right,” whispered Peter, stuffing a last piece of salt pork into his shirt. He grabbed the barrelhead and hastily put it back onto the barrel.
Too hastily. Peter didn’t get it on right. The barrelhead slid across the opening and fell to the floor with a loud clatter.
The cook woke instantly.
“Hey! What…WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” he bellowed, struggling to get out of the hammock.
Come! rang Tink in Peter’s ear, but he needed no persuading. In two steps he was out of the room and into the corridor. He turned right to race for the companionway.
NO! Tink grabbed Peter’s hair in her tiny fists; she yanked with surprising force. Not that way!
Peter was about to ask her why, when he saw it, straight ahead—somebody, something, clad in black, coming down the companionway. He turned and ran, following Tinker Bell the other way along the corridor. They made a right-angle turn to the left. Behind hi
m he heard the bellowing of the angry cook. But now, in the instant before he turned the corner, Peter also felt something—a sudden, strange chill, both in the air and shivering up through him. He dared not look back; the cook was thundering down the corridor now, roaring with rage, coming after him.
“STOP, THIEF!” he bellowed.
This way, said the bells in Peter’s ear.
They entered a corridor that cut across the width of the ship. Tink darted to the right, into a narrow passageway, and Peter quickly saw why: just ahead was a narrow companionway leading up to the deck. Tink shot up through the opening like a spark out of a chimney. Peter launched himself upward right behind her, clearing the companionway opening just as the cook, who moved with remarkable quickness for a man of his bulk, reached the bottom of the ladder.
“ON DECK THERE!” bellowed the cook. “STOP HIM! STOP THE THIEF!”
Peter found himself on the deck by the portside rail, almost to the stern. He heard the pounding of bare feet running toward him from the forward part of the ship. And now the cook’s furious face appeared in the companionway.
There was nowhere for Peter to go. Nowhere on the ship, in any event. After an instant’s hesitation, Peter ran to the stern and dove headfirst over the rail.
“MAN OVERBOARD!” bellowed the cook.
In a moment, three men reached the stern rail, then six, all looking down at the ship’s frothy wake, ghostly white in the black night sea. There was some discussion of bringing the ship about and attempting a rescue, but this plan was vehemently vetoed by the cook.
“Good riddance,” he said, to nods of agreement from the others. “We don’t need a food thief on this ship.”
“He’s shark food, then,” said one wit, drawing chuckles from the group.
But the joviality stopped instantly and the men fell silent when the air turned cool, and the dark form of Ombra oozed out of the companionway.
“Who was it?” asked the groaning voice. “Who went over the rail?”
All eyes turned to the cook, the only man who’d seen the thief.
“I…I can’t say,” he said. “I never caught a look at his face. But he was a slight one. That I’m sure of. Slight and quick. And…” The cook hesitated.
“And what?” groaned Ombra.
“Nothing, sir,” said the cook, who had decided that it was wiser not to mention the strange light he’d seen darting about the thief. “Just that he was a slight one, sir. And quick.”
“Get the captain,” groaned Ombra. “Tell him I want a full muster of all the men on this ship. I want to know who went over the side. Now.”
A sailor scurried off to give the captain the unwelcome news. The rest remained at the stern, watching the wake. Nobody looked skyward; there was no reason to. So nobody saw Peter and Tink, who had, after launching themselves from the stern, flown alongside the ship at wavetop level to the bow, then arced high into the dark sky, then swooped back down to their hiding place inside the furled sail.
From there, as their racing pulses gradually slowed to normal, they watched and listened to the proceedings below: the unhappy sailors, roused from their sleep, lined up on deck to be counted, then counted again; the embarrassed anger of Captain Nerezza, forced to confront the fact that there had been a stowaway on his ship; the mysterious dark figure, silently watching it all.
“Who is that?” Peter whispered, pointing out the cloaked form of Ombra.
Tinker Bell shivered, and again Peter saw the unfamiliar look of fear on her face as she crossed her tiny arms.
Bad, she said.
Peter remembered the chill he’d felt belowdecks. Could it possibly have come from the cloaked man?
“But who is he?” he whispered. “How do we know he’s bad?”
Tink only shivered, and shook her head. Bad, she repeated. Stay away.
Peter slid down into the canvas sail. He pulled a piece of salt pork from his shirt and, after offering it to Tink—who shook her head with distaste—tore off a piece with his teeth and began chewing.
A hundred feet below, the sailors who’d been awakened were dismissed; they trudged back to their hammocks, muttering unhappily. In a minute, Nerezza and Ombra stood alone on deck.
“So it was a stowaway,” said Nerezza.
Ombra was silent.
“Whoever it was,” said Nerezza, “he’s dead now.”
“Is he?” groaned Ombra. “Are you sure?”
“Well, of course he is,” said Nerezza. “He went over the rail. By now he…”
Nerezza didn’t finish the sentence; Ombra was gone, having melted away into the darkness.
Nerezza stood alone, wondering who had been on his ship, and why Ombra would possibly doubt that the stowaway had drowned.
CHAPTER 25
GENIUS
HOOK WAS IN A COLD RAGE.
He was never pleasant to be around, but now his mood was foul even for him. A dark fury consumed him. He’d been this way for days, ever since his utter humiliation at the hands of the cursed flying boy.
Revenge. He wanted revenge. He would have his revenge.
And so this day, for the first time since he had been marooned on this wretched island, he laboriously climbed to the top of the great steep peak that separated the pirate side from the side where the boys—and the Mollusks—lived. After reaching the peak, he slowly, stealthily, worked his way down the far side to a rock outcropping that gave him a good view of the Mollusk village, and the place nearby where the boys had their driftwood hut. He lay on his stomach to keep out of sight, and he watched and waited. He would wait as long as it took. He would have his revenge.
An hour went by. Two. And then he saw them…
The boys! Two…three…no, four of them. The flying boy was not among them, but Hook assumed he would be somewhere around. They were moving away from the Mollusk village, and Hook saw that they were carrying things. Two of them held stacks of large, jungle-plant leaves—Why? Hook wondered. One had his arms wrapped around what looked like a small stool or table. The chubby one was carrying an armful of coconuts.
Hook tracked them intently as they moved left to right along one of the many jungle paths. His view of them was interrupted by a clump of palm trees. He shifted his gaze slightly to the right, where the path became visible again.
Nothing.
Hook watched the clump of trees intently for twenty minutes. Then the boys emerged again, going back the way they had come.
But now their hands were empty.
“Ah,” said Hook, with a smile that revealed his brown tooth stumps in all their jagged glory. “Got ourselves a little hiding place, have we?”
He stayed there, watching, and in fifteen minutes the boys appeared again, carrying more leaves and coconuts. Again they disappeared into the palm clump, again reappearing with empty hands. They made several more trips as Hook watched, thinking, plotting. The boys had made a mistake, choosing a hiding place away from the protection of the Mollusk warriors. It was not all that far away, but perhaps far enough to do the trick.
If he could catch them as a group…
Hook’s eyes wandered far to the left, where his attention was captured by several low, brown shapes moving on a distant hillside. A glimmer of an idea began to glow in his sinister mind, and the more he pondered it, the brighter it grew. He continued pondering until he was satisfied he had a plan that was not only workable, but—Hook had to admit it, in all modesty—brilliant. Finally, the rage that had engulfed him for days was gone, and the joy of pure evil filled his calloused heart.
Hook rose and made his way back across the mountain to the pirate camp.
“Smee!” he shouted as he entered the clearing. “Fetch me writing tools!”
“Aye, Cap’n!” answered Smee from inside the log fort. After a minute he bustled out, in all his roundness, carrying a quill made from a parrot feather and a coconut-shell bowl filled with octopus ink. These he set on a rickety desk made of driftwood, with a stump for a chair. Hook sat
at the desk and, frowning in concentration, sketched out something on a large yellow leaf that had been dried in the sun. Smee, looking over Hook’s shoulder, studied the drawing, which consisted of a complex web of lines and arrows.
“What’s that, Cap’n?” he asked.
“It’s a plan,” said Hook.
“Ah,” said Smee. He was silent for a few moments, then said: “A plan of what?”
“Paths,” said Hook. “The boys are using the same path over and over.”
“I see,” said Smee, although in fact he did not.
“We can’t go near their hut, can we, Smee?”
“No, Cap’n.”
“And why’s that?”
“Them Mollusks.”
“Right you are. The savages watch over the boys. But what if we was to flush ’em out and herd ’em down this path?” He pointed to his drawing.
“The Mollusks?” said Smee.
“No, you idjit,” said Hook. “The boys.”
“Herd the boys?” said Smee.
“Exactly!” said Hook, gesturing to his drawing. “The jungle is thick here. There’s nowhere to go but down this path, is there?” He smiled. “We’ll scare ’em half to death, run ’em straight away from that hut so fast they won’t have time to think. They’ll be running away from the Mollusks. A few minutes is all it’ll take.”
“But won’t the Mollusks see us herd ’em?” said Smee.
“Ah!” said Hook, delighted with his cleverness. “But it won’t be us doing the herding.”
“I see,” said Smee, still not seeing.
Hook sketched some more arrows onto the leaf, then sketched some crosshatch lines where one of the arrows turned right. He nodded with satisfaction.
“I am a genius,” he observed.
Smee, frowning hard at the leaf, said nothing.
Hook sighed and said, “Tell Hurky to fetch the fishing net.”
“The fishing net?” said Smee.
“Yes, the fishing net,” said Hook. “And tell the men to collect their spears.”
Smee frowned even harder. “We’re going fishing with spears?”
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