Peter and the Shadow Thieves (12 page)

“I wonder, Captain, if it might be possible to send one of your hands aloft to inspect the mizzen sails?”

“Inspect? Inspect for what, sir?” As he spoke the word “sir,” Nerezza’s wooden nose whistled, as happened when he was agitated. Ombra or no, Nerezza did not like to be told, even politely, what to do with his crew.

“A stowaway, perhaps,” said Ombra. “Perhaps nothing.”

“Lord Ombra,” said Nerezza, trying to keep the anger from his voice. “If there were a stowaway, my men would have—” Ombra silenced him with a raised hand. Nerezza felt a chil creep along his neck.

“Humor me, Captain,” groaned Ombra. “It’s just a feeling I have.”

I
didn’t know you had feelings,
thought Nerezza.

“Ah, but I do have them,” said Ombra, as if Nerezza had spoken aloud. “And I have learned to trust them.” Nerezza stammered out a reply. “Of…of course,” he said. “As you wish. I’l send a boy up to take a look around.”

“Good,” said Ombra. “I wil retire to my cabin.”

Ombra spent the day in a tiny room, a windowless, coffinlike space. The crew had strict orders not to look in there—not that any man would.

“Yes, Lord Ombra,” said Nerezza. “If we find anything, I—” he stopped, realizing that Ombra was gone.

Nerezza rose from the table and went to open the door.

He touched the handle, then gasped and drew his hand back. The handle was cold as ice.

Regaining his composure, he opened the door and ascended through a companionway.

On deck, he looked up at the mizzenmast sails and rigging; there was nothing amiss. He sighed, then cal ed to an officer.

“Send a boy up to check the mizzen sails,” he said.

The officer, puzzled, risked a question: “If I may ask, sir, check for what?”

“Just check them!” barked Nerezza. He stormed below, embarrassed to be giving orders that made no sense to him.

A
feeling, indeed,
he thought.

S
EAMAN CONRAD DILLINGER, agile as a monkey in a tree, climbed the rigging that ran down from the mizzenmast. Even though the ship rode the sea in constant motion—up-and-down, forward-and-back, side-to-side—Conrad easily kept his balance. He didn’t mind being sent up to check the sails, because he enjoyed the view so much. The ocean spread out before him like a vast blue tablecloth, interrupted by the occasional white stitch of foam on a wave.

He glanced down to the ship’s deck, now far below. A few crew members mopped the decks, their heads down. Most were below, eating breakfast. Conrad could smel the biscuits and bacon from here. He glanced up at the sails; they looked fine to him, but he’d been ordered to check them, and check them he would.

Peter awoke to the sound of urgent bel s in his ear. He yawned and was about to ask Tink what the clamor was about when she placed her tiny hand across his lips to silence him.

What
? Peter asked with his eyes.

Tink answered with a soft flurry of bel s. A
boy is coming!

Peter, instantly wide awake, sneaked a peek over the fold of the weathered canvas. Sure enough, a young sailor—not much older than he was—was quickly climbing the rigging toward the reefed topsail where Peter hid.

Where to hide
? Peter wondered.

Tink pointed forward. The topmost sail on the next mast was reefed, just like the one Peter was hiding in.

There,
said Tink’s bel s.

Peter looked at the deck; the few crew members he saw on deck had their heads aimed down at their work as they mopped. On the main mast was a lookout in the crow’s nest, but he was facing forward. But what about the sailor climbing toward him? Wouldn’t he see Peter fly across?

I’ll deal with the boy,
chimed Tink.
You be ready.

“Be ready for
what
?” whispered Peter.

But Tink was gone.

Conrad had almost reached the second yardarm when he heard it.

Bells.

But not the ship’s bel s, which were as familiar to Conrad as his own heartbeat. These sounded like tiny bel s. Tiny…
beautiful
bel s, coming from the furled sail above him. He looked up, and…

WHOOSH!

…something shot past his left ear. A bird? It was about the size of a bird, but…but it was
glowing.
And it moved far too fast for a bird; far too fast for Conrad to get a good view of it. He looked down, and…

WHOOSH!

…it shot past his head again, this time going up, and then around behind him. Trying to fol ow it, he twisted his head violently and swung around on the shroud one-handed, and…

WHOOSH!

…it shot past him again, and then…

WHOOSH!

…again, and this time, in his frantic, twisting effort to get a glimpse of this thing that was tormenting him, Conrad did something that he never would have thought was possible for a rigging rat like himself.

He lost his grip.

And then, gravity being what it is, he fel .

Peter saw the boy fal . He’d been watching as Tink swooped around the young seaman. When he was sure the boy was distracted, Peter had launched himself across the space between the masts, toward his new hiding place. But he kept his eyes on the action below him as the boy fel . For an instant the boy appeared doomed, but then he hit a rigging line and grabbed hold, stopping himself just before he crashed onto the deck.

Peter shot toward the sail, diving into its folds just as the sound of the boy’s strangled shout reached the crow’s-nest lookout and the men on deck. Al eyes turned to the young seaman, white-faced and wobbly, clinging to the rigging. None saw the golden blur streaking toward the sail where Peter now hid.

“Thanks, Tink,” he whispered as she nestled in next to him.

Tink tinkled modestly.

“I am very, very glad you came,” said Peter.

You should be,
said the bel s.

Safely back on deck, his legs stil shaky, Conrad Dil inger looked back into the rigging, an expression of puzzlement on his face. Watching him with some amusement was a leather-faced older hand who’d been swabbing the deck onto which Conrad had very nearly fal en.

“Wakes you up, don’t it?” he said. “Almost fel myself once. Wakes you right up. Good thing you caught yourself, or I’d have had quite a mess to mop down here, ha-ha.” Conrad looked at him.

“Best thing is to get right back up there,” said the old swabbie.

“Did you see it?” said Conrad.

“Did I see
what
?” the swabbie inquired. He spat a brown glob over the rail.

“There was this yel ow
thing.
Like a bird, only too fast for a bird. More like a…bee. Did you see a yel ow bee?”

“You’re talking like you hit your head,” said the swabbie. “Ain’t no bees out at sea.” He smiled at the sound of that, revealing a mouth nearly devoid of teeth. “No bees at sea,” he repeated, and then he turned it into a song:

“
Ain’t no bees out to sea if you please.

If you please, when you sneeze mind the breeze
…”

Off the old man went, mopping and singing. His song had a catchy tune; in a few moments the other swabbies were singing along with him. Conrad found himself humming

along as he looked back up at the rigging. There
had
been something flying around him up there; he was sure of that. What he wasn’t sure about was whether he should report this to an officer. He was worried that he’d be ridiculed, especial y if he mentioned the strange feeling he’d had just before he’d managed to catch himself—the feeling of
floating.
And what about the bel s? He had definitely heard bel s. Should he report that? But who would believe him?

Conrad decided he would think about it later. Right now, it was time for breakfast. Fol owing the smel of biscuits and bacon, he headed below.

Hiding in the sail far above, Peter smel ed the biscuits and bacon, too.

“I’m hungry, Tink,” he said. “And thirsty.”

Tinker Bel responded with a stern burst of bel s.

“No, I won’t go down there during the day,” he said. “But tonight I have to find water and something to eat, or I’l never make it to England.” More bel s, softer now.

“You’re right,” said Peter. “Right now I need to sleep. Wake me when it’s dark, would you?” A nod from Tink, and in a minute’s time Peter was fast asleep.