Peter and the Starcatchers (27 page)

SOMETHING”

P
ETER WAS BARELY BREATHING NOW. He was right behind Moly, the two of them moving slowly, slowly, through a thicket of vines, placing each footstep with excruciating care, lest they break a fal en branch and give themselves away.

They were very near the voices, which were coming from a clearing just ahead. Mostly it was the strange grunts and clicks, but twice there had been another low, distinct voice, and both times Mol y had turned back and mouthed the name:
Alf.

Now Mol y stopped. She’d reached the edge of the thicket, and was careful y pushing some vines aside, making a slit to see through. Peter moved close, looking over her shoulder, careful not to touch her, but very aware of the fact that he liked the way her neck smel ed.

As the vines parted, Peter’s attention was drawn from Mol y’s neck to the clearing, which was dominated by a huge tree—actual y, a group of trees—in the center, protected by a thicket of odd vertical polelike growths descending from the branches. Moving among these poles were brown-skinned, black-haired people—the men wearing only loincloths, the women in slightly more modest loose shifts, the smal er children happily naked.

“Peter,” whispered Mol y, nodding toward the right.
“Look.
”

Peter looked, and his heart jumped. There, perhaps fifty feet away, a half dozen spear-wielding men were surrounding his mates—James, Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted.

Alf was there, too, but the big man was standing, holding his right hand up, speaking to the oldest-looking of the men. Whatever he said, it apparently was the wrong thing, because suddenly the savage was pointing his spear directly at Alf’s chest.

“He’s going to kil Alf!” whispered Peter. “We’ve got to stop him!”

“How?” said Mol y.

“I don’t know,” said Peter, moving toward the right, keeping just outside the clearing. “We’l think of something.”
We’d better think of something.

L
ITTLE RICHARD SLIPPED INTO THE WAVES without a splash, a difficult job for a man so big, and dragged the dory ashore alongside Stache’s longboat.

Slank, a sword and two pistols stuck into his belt, waited for the boat to hit sand, and then hopped out into the shal ow water. He strode to the sand, knelt on one knee, and studied the pattern of prints in the sand.

“Two . . . maybe four, children. Black Stache and his men behind them.” He pointed out the thick groove in the sand. “Somebody was dragging something heavy.”

“The treasure?” said Little Richard.

“The treasure ain’t heavy,” said Slank. “And it
floated,
don’t forget.”

“But if not the treasure…”

“Wreckage from the
Never Land,
I’d venture to guess. Dunno why they’d be dragging it up the beach.” He looked up toward the jungle, and Little Richard fol owed his gaze.

“We’re going
in
there?” he asked.

“A big ape like you…afraid?” said Slank.

“Spiders,” said Little Richard, sheepishly. “I hates ’em.”

“I reckon there’s spiders in there big as your fist,” teased Slank. “Hairy spiders. Spiders that need a shave.” Little Richard shuddered, then saw something in the sand. “Look here!” he said.

Slank came over to see what Little Richard was pointing to. It was an indentation in the moist sand, with paral el bands running left to right. Between the bands was a pattern of wood grain.

“Water barrel,” Slank said. “Whoever was dragging it stopped to rest here. Mr. Black Stache might be a fearsome pirate, but he’s not much of a tracker, is he? He’s chasing a
water barrel.
” Slank barked out a laugh.

“What’s more,” he continued, “the fool’s left his longboat unguarded. We’l tow it around that point”—he indicated a curving spit of sand in the distance—“so when Mr. Stache returns from his water-barrel chase, he’l find he has a nasty long swim to reach the
Wasp.
Meanwhile, we’l be locating that treasure.”

“How d’you know it’s here?” said Little Richard. “How d’you know the storm didn’t carry it off?”

“Oh, it’s here, al right,” said Slank, his hand going to the chain at his neck. “I can feel it. It’s here, and it’s going to be mine.”

A
LF GAPED AT THE SAVAGE FOR SEVERAL SECONDS before he could get the words out.

“You…you speak English,” he said.

“Yes,” said the savage. “So, apparently, do you.”

The savage grunt-clicked something to the others, who chuckled.

“B—But how?” said Alf.

“Oh, English is easy,” said the savage. “You want a difficult language, try this one.” He rattled off a bizarre-sounding sequence of grunts, clicks, and pops, culminating in a low whistle. This got another big laugh.

“Yes,” said Alf, “but what I mean is, how did you
learn
English?”

“The same way you did, I assume,” said the savage. “From listening to Englishmen. I spent thirteen years on ships of the British navy.”

“You was a sailor?” said Alf.

“I think a more accurate word is
slave,
” said the savage, “although the term the navy used was
pressed into service.
Twenty years ago they landed here and took me. And my two brothers.”

The savage’s tone remained conversational, but his eyes had turned cold.

“My brothers responded to captivity less wel than I,” he continued. “They were both gone within a year. But I was…
adaptable,
and quite good at languages. Thirteen years I spent in the company of—doing the bidding of—Englishmen. Thirteen years, until the kindness of fate, and a shipwreck, brought me back home, to Mol usk.”

“Mol usk?” said Alf.

“The name we cal this island, our home,” said the savage. “Actual y, our word for it is…” He uttered a strange sound, from somewhere deep in his throat. “We cal ourselves the Mol usk people. I have the honor of being our leader. My name—or the English version of my name—is Fighting Prawn.”

“Fighting
Prawn?
” said Alf.

“Does my name amuse you, Englishman?” said Fighting Prawn.

“No,” said Alf, his grin evaporating.

“If I may ask,” said Fighting Prawn, “what is
your
name?”

“Alf,” said Alf.

“Alf,” repeated Fighting Prawn. He said something to the other Mol usks, which included “Alf.” They roared with laughter. Fighting Prawn turned back to Alf.

“In our language,” he said, “Alf means squid poop.”

“Ah,” said Alf.

“Now,
Alf,
” said Fighting Prawn, getting a chuckle from the men, “these boys”—he gestured to James, Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted—“are they your children?”

“Oh, no,” said Alf. “Them’s orphans, from the ship.”

“I see,” said Fighting Prawn. “And where is your ship at present?”

“Bottom of the sea, I reckon,” said Alf. “Storm broke her to pieces, it did. We barely got off with our skins.”

“Pity,” said Fighting Prawn. “And were there any other survivors?”

“Dunno,” said Alf, shaking his head. “It was terrible rough out there. A bloody miracle we found this island, it is.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Fighting Prawn. “We get visitors here every year or so. Some arrive through misfortune, as in your case; others arrive with a purpose. At one time, the Mol usks welcomed these visitors. We have learned better.”

“Wh—what do you…mean?” said Alf.

“I mean,” said Fighting Prawn, “that we have learned that things seem to work best on Mol usk when the only inhabitants are Mol usks.” There were a few moments of silence, broken by James.

“Sir, if you please,” he said.

“Yes, boy?” said Fighting Prawn.

“What happened to the other, uh, visitors? Do they stil live here?”

Fighting Prawn regarded James for a moment, his black eyes impassive. “No,” he said, final y. “They no longer live here.”

“So,” said James, “wh—when visitors come, you let them go?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Fighting Prawn.

P
ETER STOPPED, HOLDING UP HIS HAND. Moly paused a foot behind him.

They’d moved along the edge of the clearing, fol owing the sound of voices. Mostly they’d heard two—Alf, and another man—
both
speaking English, which puzzled Peter, as the only men he’d seen other than Alf were savages.

Now, approaching the voices, separated from the clearing by only a few yards of thick vegetation, Peter turned and leaned in close to Mol y, speaking in the barest whisper.

“How much of that stuff have you got left in your locket?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “Why? What are you thinking?”

“I’m going to run out there and start yel ing,” said Peter. “I’l get the savages to chase me into the jungle. Then you can run over to the boys and Alf, and fly them out of there. We can meet on the beach.”

Mol y shook her head. “No, Peter,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ve got enough starstuff left for that. Besides, they would likely catch us both before we took two steps.”

“Then what’s
your
plan?” said Peter.

“We go find the trunk first,” said Mol y. “With more starstuff…”

“No,” Peter interrupted. “They could be…dead…by then. We don’t know where the trunk is. We don’t even know if it’s on this island.” Mol y reached up, wrapped a hand around her locket and said, “It’s not far off. I can
feel
it. We
must
find it. It’s our only hope to help the boys.”

“You don’t care about my mates,” Peter said. “You just want your trunk.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “Of course I care about them. But, yes, the trunk is more important than any of us . . . than al of us combined. And right now it’s also our only hope to help the boys, and ourselves.
Please,
Peter.”

Peter shook his head. “I won’t leave my mates,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Al right,” said Mol y. “Fine, then. I’l find the trunk on my own.”

“Seriously? You won’t help me?”

“Help you get yourself kil ed? No, I won’t.”

Peter drew back, his expression hurt and angry. “Fine, then,” he said. “Good luck finding the trunk…
without
me.” Not waiting for her response, he turned and crept closer to the clearing. As he reached its edge, he stopped and looked behind him.

Mol y was gone.

Fine, then.

On his stomach now, Peter inched forward until he could peer into the clearing. There were savages standing only a few feet in front of him; beyond them he saw his mates. Alf stood with them. Although he’d heard talking as he crawled forward, there was only silence now, and a fearful look on Alf’s face.

Peter patted the ground around him; his hand closed on a rock, and he tugged it out of the damp, spongy soil. His plan now—it was the best he could come up with, under the circumstances—was to create a distraction. He would hurl the rock at the savages, yel , and then retreat into the jungle, hoping they’d chase after him. That would give Alf and the boys a chance to run off.

Holding the rock, Peter slowly rose to his feet.

Here goes nothing.

He took aim at the older savage, who appeared to be the leader. He drew his arm back…judged the distance…then brought it forward, hard.