Peter and the Starcatchers (7 page)

“And I,” said Thomas.

“Bring me a ham sandwich,” said Tubby Ted, awakened by the talk of food.

“I’m going alone,” said Peter, ducking out of the room. “And I’l bring back what I can.”

“Be careful,” said James, behind him.

“Also, some cheese,” said Tubby Ted.

Peter climbed the ladderway to the deck, poked his head up and looked around. He saw a smal knot of crewmen a few yards aft, looking off the ship’s port rail, talking; otherwise, the deck appeared to be empty. He eased himself out of the ladderway and slid on his bel y to the starboard side, away from the men. Then, on hands and knees, he crawled aft.

As he neared the stern of the ship he heard loud talk and laughter coming from a cabin window. He recognized Slank’s booming voice, and the high-pitched giggle of Mol y’s governess, Mrs. Bumbrake.

“Oh, Mr. Slank!” she was saying. “You are a devil!”

“That I am, Mrs. Bumbrake!” boomed Slank. “And you know what they say!”

“What do they say, Mr. Slank?”

“They say,” roared Slank, “the devil take the hindmost!”

Then Peter heard Mrs. Bumbrake emit a very un-governess-like squeal, fol owed by what sounded like a slap, fol owed by some thumping, then more squealing, then more thumping, and then much laughing. From the sound of it, Peter figured they wouldn’t be breaking up the party any time soon.

That takes care of Slank,
he thought.
Now all I have to worry about is the big man with the whip.

He checked around to make sure nobody was watching, then got to his feet, tiptoed aft, and descended some steps to a dimly lit corridor, flanked by four cabin doors.
Molly is
probably in one of these cabins,
he thought, moving silently, until he reached a narrow ladderway leading down. Heart pounding, he descended the ladder, and found himself in darkness. He felt his way along the floor with his feet, toes outstretched. He then stood stil for perhaps a minute, waiting as his eyes began to pick up what little light filtered down the ladderway from above. He saw he was in a long, low space. At the end was a doorway, and …

Peter froze. On the floor by the doorway was a man’s body. It lay slumped against the wal , head lagging sideways, and …

…
and it was snoring.
Peter relaxed a little. He peered at the sleeping man’s face, and recognized him as a member of the crew. Next to the man, on the floor, was a lantern, which apparently had gone out. The man’s right hand was loosely curled around a wooden club, about two feet long.

He’s on watch,
Peter thought.
He’s guarding the door, and he let the lantern go out, or he put it out, and he fell asleep.

Peter thought about it some more.
If he’s on watch, whatever’s in that room is important. Maybe they keep the good food in there.

He hesitated, weighing the risk of waking the guard against the hope of finding food. Then his stomach growled, making the decision for him. Peter crept forward, keeping an eye on the sleeping man. He reached the door and put his hand on the knob, worried that the door would be locked, only to find that not only was it unlocked, it was slightly ajar.

That’s odd.

Peter gently pushed the door open and stepped inside. Again, he waited for his eyes to adjust, as this room was even darker. He heard a scuttling sound, but it was one he’d become al too familiar with: rats.

Please don’t bite
me, he thought.
I’m here for the same reason you are.

In a few moments he began to make out a bulky shape perhaps five feet in front of him. Holding his hands before him, sliding his feet, he started toward it, and …

What was that?
It was a noise in the corner, something moving.

It sounds too big to be a rat.

Peter froze again, peering toward the source of the sound, and he saw something green—no,
two
green things—glowing, hovering. Peter stared at them and realized …

Those are eyes. But what has eyes that glow like that?

Peter was not interested in finding out. He turned and bolted for the doorway and …

WHUMP!

Peter bounced off a stout body and fel backward onto the floor. He’d run into the guard, who was now awake, and unhappy.

“OW!
” said the guard, stumbling backward. He caught himself and lumbered forward into the room, shouting, “What do yer think yer OW!” The guard, seeing poorly in the dark room, had tripped over Peter’s legs. He stumbled and pitched forward headfirst, fal ing and striking something behind Peter. Seeing his chance to escape, Peter scrambled to his feet and darted through the doorway, determined to get out of there as quickly as possible, only to stop when he heard the sailor’s astonished

“Wha … ?
”

Unable to control his curiosity, Peter risked a backward glance. The guard was on his hands and knees, next to the bulky shape on the floor. Peter, his eyes now ful y adjusted to the darkness, recognized it as the canvas-wrapped cargo he’d seen being carried aboard the ship. The guard, his mouth agape, was staring at something above the shape.

A rat.

In midair.

A rat floating in midair.

Peter blinked his eyes, but there was no question: the rat was suspended in space, as if hanging from a string, but there was no string. As Peter and the guard stared at the rat, it waved its legs slowly, almost languidly, as if swimming, and began to drift toward the doorway, toward Peter.

Peter knew he should run, but could not move his legs, could not take his eyes off the airborne rodent now coming through the doorway. When it was about two feet away it seemed to notice him and, moving its right feet in a paddling motion, altered its course to the left, so as to just miss Peter’s head. Riveted to the spot, Peter watched it come, swiveling his head as it drew closer, closer, and …

Peter jumped as a hand gripped his arm.

“Peter,” a voice whispered.

Peter jerked his head around and saw: Mol y.

Where did she come from?
“Mol y,” he said, “what are …”

“You need to get out of here
now
,” she said, pul ing him away from the doorway.

Behind him, Peter heard the guard stumbling to his feet.

“Here, now!” the guard was shouting. “Stop, whoever you are!”

Peter felt Mol y dragging him to the ladder.

“Come
on
,” she said, reaching the ladder and swiftly ascending it. Peter fol owed, his mind swirling now, thinking about the flying rat, remembering the eyes he’d seen glowing in the dark.

Molly has green eyes.
They reached the next deck. Behind and below them, the guard was stil yel ing for them to stop. Peter started toward the stairway leading up to the main deck, but Mol y grabbed his arm, opened a door, pul ed him inside, and closed the door behind them. It was a smal cabin, but cozy—two bunks, one slung over the other; a tiny bureau.

The cabin smel ed of lavender and face powder. This was obviously where Mol y and Mrs. Bumbrake stayed.

“Mol y,” said Peter, “what …”

He was silenced as Mol y clapped her hand over his mouth. She nodded toward the door. Peter heard the sound of boots clomping down the stairway, then past the cabin door.

Big boots.

The man with the whip,
thought Peter.
Little Richard.

Mol y silently opened the door just as the top of the huge man’s head disappeared down the ladderway.

“Go,” said Mol y, pushing Peter out the door. “Before Slank gets here.”

“Al right,” said Peter, “but what was …”

“There’s no time,” said Mol y. “Here, take this.” She turned, snatched a brown-paper package from the bureau, and shoved it into his hand. “Now,
go
.” Peter heard more footsteps on the deck. Clutching the package, he raced up the stairway and, keeping low, scooted forward along the ship’s starboard rail. Behind him, he heard more yel ing; one of the voices was Slank’s. But Peter’s path was clear, and he reached the forward ladderway unnoticed.

He darted down it and, with great relief, ducked into the boys’ cramped little space, which, at this moment, seemed almost pleasant.

James sat up. “Peter,” he said. “You’re back.”

Peter slumped to the floor, breathing hard, his heart pounding.

“What happened?” said Prentiss.

“Are you al right?” said Thomas. “You look scared.”

“I’m not scared,” said Peter, too quickly.

“What happened?” repeated Prentiss.

“Wel ,” said Peter, not sure how much he should tel , or how much the others would believe, “there was this room, and …”

“Did you get food?” interrupted Tubby Ted.

“Wel ,” said Peter, “I was trying to …”

“You did!” said Tubby Ted, spying the package and grabbing it from Peter’s hands. “You got food!”

“But that’s—”

Peter was interrupted by the boys’ shouts of delight as Tubby Ted ripped open the brown paper and triumphantly held up a loaf of bread.

“Peter!” said James. “You did it!”

“Yes,” said Peter, quietly, looking at the bread. “Of course.”

They managed to pry the loaf out of Tubby Ted’s hands long enough to divide it five ways. Although they could have eaten several more loaves, the worst of their hunger pangs were satisfied, and after they finished the last crumbs, they al quickly drifted off to sleep.

Al , that is, except Peter, who tossed restlessly, reviewing his strange experience in the aft hold, questions swarming in his brain.

How could a rat fly? What was going on in that hold? Why were they guarding it? Why was Mol y down there? Had those been her eyes he’d seen in the dark? They had to have been! But what kind of person has eyes like that, eyes that glow in the dark?
How on earth could a rat fly?

The more Peter pondered these questions, the more he became convinced that the answers, whatever they were, had something to do with the trunk, the same trunk that had made that sailor act so strange on the day the ship left port. Peter went over it again and again in his mind, trying to remember if he’d seen anything else in the hold; there was nothing, he decided. Only the trunk. That’s what they were guarding.

I’m going to find out what’s in there.

P
RESTON AND HARBUCKLE, their hands tied to their feet behind their backs, lay on their fat belies on the bottom of the dory, looking like a pair of pudgy rocking horses. Their situation—

bound and gagged, abandoned at sea without food or water—had been bad enough to begin with, but it was getting worse.

They’d been drifting for a while now, each man struggling in vain to get free of his ropes. And now Preston, exhausted from the effort, could see that the water sloshing around the bottom with him was definitely higher.

The dory was leaking.

Figures, Preston thought.
Black Stache wouldn’t waste a good boat just to kill
us.

Preston strained to look around. He could see that the dory was riding lower now. As the waves rol ed it, water sometimes sloshed over the sides.

The little boat was going down.

I’m going
to
drown,
thought Preston. He felt a momentary pang of regret that he had not spent more time with his beloved wife. But it passed when he remembered that the reason he’d gone to sea in the first place was that he had never real y liked his beloved wife.