Peter and the Sword of Mercy (6 page)

“There’s something flying toward us,” he said softly.

“A bird?” said DeWulf, peering into the bright sky ahead. All four men were looking now, and one by one they saw it, a dark shape swooping across the water toward them at astonishing speed, growing larger and larger. …

“That’s no bird,” said Kelly. “That’s …”

“That’s a
boy,”
said O’Neal. “A flying boy!”

McPherson quickly hauled himself into the boat for a better look. The four men stared as the boy zoomed toward them. As he drew near, they saw a second flying shape—a tiny, brilliant ball of light, as if a piece of the sun had broken loose. The glowing orb darted and zipped about the boat, and the startled men heard the sound of bells.

The boy swooped to an easy midair stop, hovering a few feet above the men’s heads. He looked to be twelve or thirteen years old; he had red hair, and freckles still visible in his deeply tanned face. He was studying the men in the boat but listening to the sounds coming from the shimmering, darting orb, which had perched on his shoulder, and which the men could now see was what looked like a tiny winged woman.

“No they’re not, Tink,” the boy said. “They’ve just been at sea for a while.”

More bells, and then the boy said, “I can’t just leave them out here.” Speaking to the men, the boy said, “My name is Peter. Who are you?”

The men in the boat looked to O’Neal, who said, “We’re crewmen from the freighter
Inganno.
She sank three weeks and two days ago. Terrible storm. We lost our oars, and our mast broke, as you see. We’re in a bad way…Peter.”

More bells, ominous in tone. Peter looked at the tiny flying woman, then shook his head.

“They need help, Tink,” he said. This was not what Tink wanted to hear. She flashed red and flew off.

“We’re trying to get to that island,” said O’Neal, pointing. “Is that
your
island?”

“I live there,” said Peter. “With the Mollusks.”

“The Mollusks?”

“You’ll meet them.”

“Then you’ll help us get there?”

Peter, hovering, studied them a moment, then said, “I will. You’ll get food and water. But the Mollusks won’t let you stay.”

“Fair enough,” said O’Neal. “Men, paddle for the island.”

Peter smiled and said, “You don’t need to paddle.”

“What do you mean?” said O’Neal.

“My friends can help you.”

“What friends?” asked O’Neal, his eyes searching the sky.

“These friends,” said Peter, gesturing toward the water.

The men looked down and saw, poking out of the water all around the boat, the heads of a dozen lovely long-haired women, looking at them with interest. Then, moving as one, the heads ducked under, and long green tails flicked the surface.

“Mermaids,” whispered DeWulf.

“Aye,” agreed McPherson.

“These are interesting waters,” said Kelly.

“The mermaids will swim your boat to the island,” said Peter. “But don’t try to touch them. They don’t like to be touched, and you wouldn’t enjoy their bite.”

“Put your hands inside the boat,” said O’Neal, but the others, eyeing the mermaids warily, had already done so. The mermaids gathered at the stern of the boat and put their hands on it. Moments later, propelled by a dozen powerful tails, the boat was skimming toward the island, faster than it had ever moved by sail. Peter flew ahead, following Tink, an angry red dot out in front.

Cheeky O’Neal, with a glance back at the mermaids, lowered his voice, so that only the other three men could hear him. “Mermaids,” he said. “And a flying boy.”

The other three nodded, their eyes on the distant speck of land, which was growing steadily larger.

The island was breathtakingly beautiful, its jungle green volcanic mountainsides rising steeply into the vivid blue sky. As the mermaids expertly navigated the lifeboat through an opening in a coral reef, the four men looked across a placid lagoon to a vertical rock cliff with a foaming waterfall plunging hundreds of feet onto a jumble of boulders below. To the left of the cliff stretched a curved beach, easily a mile long, its bright white sand leading up to a line of tall palms guarding the entrance to the jungle.

Peter had flown ahead to tell the Mollusks about the men in the lifeboat. Now he stood on the beach with a dozen bronze-skinned warriors, all holding spears, all watching the approaching boat.

“Look friendly, men,” said Cheeky O’Neal.

As the boat reached the island, some of the warriors waded into the lagoon and hauled it up onto the beach. The mermaids, with a flash of tails, disappeared. The four men climbed out of the boat; O’Neal was almost a foot taller than the other three. The four stood on the sand, watching the Mollusks, waiting.

An older warrior stepped forward. He was tall and broad-chested, and although there were age lines at the corners of his deep-set dark eyes, his hair was glistening black, and he had the look of a man who could still hunt, or fight. Speaking to O’Neal, he said, in flawless British-accented English, “I am Fighting Prawn, chief of the Mollusks. Who are you?”

“My name is O’Neal. This is DeWulf, Kelly, and McPherson.” The men nodded as their names were spoken.

“Peter tells me your ship sank,” said Fighting Prawn.

“That’s right,” said O’Neal. “We …”

“How long ago?” said Fighting Prawn.

“Three weeks and two days.”

Fighting Prawn studied the four men for a moment, his eyes lingering on the red, sunburned flesh of DeWulf, Kelly, and McPherson. Then he nodded and said, “You must be thirsty and hungry.” He said something in an odd-sounding language to his men, then told O’Neal, “These men will take you to our village. You will be given food and drink. When you are fed and rested, we will see about repairing your boat and giving you supplies so that you can be on your way.”

“With all respect, chief,” said O’Neal, “we’re a long way from anywhere. I don’t know if that little boat can …”

Fighting Prawn raised his hand, silencing O’Neal.

“You will not stay here,” he said.

O’Neal bowed slightly. “As you say, chief,” he said, glancing at his three companions.

Surrounded by warriors, the four men started up the beach. Peter turned to follow, but Fighting Prawn caught him by the arm. The two had become close friends, having known each other for more than twenty years, although neither had aged in that time.

“Peter,” said Fighting Prawn. “When you found these men, did you see any sign of fresh water in the boat?”

“Not that I recall,” Peter said. “Why?”

“Fish bones? Seaweed?”

Peter shook his head. “Why?”

“They claim to have been in the boat for more than three weeks. What did they eat and drink? Why are their lips not cracked, their bellies not swollen? And why is their skin so red, instead of brown, like yours?”

“So you think …”

“These men have not been in that boat more than three
days.
Certainly not three weeks.”

“But why would they lie?” said Peter.

Fighting Prawn’s eyes traveled up the beach, to the men in the company of his warriors.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But 1 want to watch them closely.”

His gaze returned to Peter’s.

“Something is not right.”

R
EVILE’S
R
EPORT

A
T THE END OF AN ENDLESS HALLWAY
on the third floor of Buckingham Palace was a room the servants knew better than to enter. The room was impressive—high ceiling, marble floors, gold-leaf furniture—but none of these features were visible now, for the room was also quite dark. Black velvet curtains covered the tall windows completely; the only light in the room came from a single flickering candle.

Simon Revile stood close to the candle, drawing what comfort he could from it. Revile was a short, stocky man with a remarkably toadlike face, his unnaturally wide mouth underscoring a flattened nose that separated his huge eyes, a bit too far apart.

Adding to the effect were Revile’s cauliflower ears, attached flat to his head like a pair of large dried apricots.

Revile knew he was unpleasant to look at. This did not trouble him. In fact, he enjoyed causing discomfort in others. He enjoyed even more causing fear, and pain. Especially pain.

At the moment, however, it was Revile who was uncomfortable, as he always was in this dark and drafty room—the lair of Baron von Schatten. Upon being summoned, Revile had, as always, let himself in, closed the door, then walked toward the candle. Now he stood by the tiny flame, his eyes darting about, trying to locate von Schatten. Revile knew he was lurking somewhere in the darkness.

“Have you something to report?”

Revile jumped at the voice, which sounded as though it came from the bottom of a deep well. Revile half-turned toward the sound, not wanting to look directly at the tall form of von Schatten, who stood only a few feet away, though he had made no sound approaching.

“Yes,” said Revile. “A coded dispatch from Belgium.”

“The Skeleton,” said von Schatten.

“Yes,” said Revile. “It seems he won the cooperation of a museum curator. The Skeleton is on his way to Aachen, on the German border.”

Revile, despite his discomfort, smiled, imagining what the Skeleton had done to the curator. Revile took great pleasure in the thought of other people’s pain.

“And the tip?” said von Schatten.

“He did not say. But I assume its recovery is imminent.”

“It had better be,” said von Schatten.

Out of the corner of his eye, Revile saw von Schatten shift position. He did this often. On those rare occasions when he stood still, his upper body moved in an odd manner, almost as if it were flickering, like the flame of the candle in front of Revile.

“The coronation date has been fixed for the twenty-sixth of June,” said von Schatten. “By then we must have the tip.”

“Yes, Baron.”

“And by then we must also reach the vault. What progress can you report on that effort?”

“It proceeds slowly, Baron. The rock—”

“It must go faster.”

“Yes, but the diggers are working to the point of exhaustion.”