Peter and the Sword of Mercy (25 page)

“What?”
said Peter.

She told them everything she knew about the trouble in London. They were stunned by the news that Ombra apparently had returned in the form of von Schatten, and had worked his way into a position of great power. Peter was also shocked to learn that, in addition to Molly, both James and Thomas were missing. This news erased whatever doubts he’d had about going back to England to help the Starcatchers.

“So,” concluded Wendy, “I’ve come all this way to ask Peter to come help rescue my mum.”

Pathetic,
chimed Tink, from Peter’s hair.

“What did she say?” asked Wendy.

“She said she and I are at your service,” said Peter.

“Thank you,” said Wendy, giving Peter’s arm a light touch that turned his face as red as his hair. “But how are we to get back? I mean, I suppose you can fly, Peter, but I think I’ve had enough flying for a lifetime.”

“I’m not sure I could find my way to England flying,” said Peter.

“So how will we get back?” said Wendy.

Peter and Fighting Prawn exchanged a look; they had been discussing this when Wendy walked up.

“We’ve got a ship,” said Peter.

“You mean a canoe?” said Wendy. “Because I don’t think …”

“No,” said Peter. “It’s a ship, quite a large one. It brought Mol—your mum to this very island once, back when it could fly. It’s being repaired and should be ready to sail tomorrow.”

“But that’s wonderful!” said Wendy.

“There is one problem,” said Peter.

“What’s that?”

“The captain and crew.”

“What about them?”

“They’re pirates.”

“What?”

It took Peter and Fighting Prawn several minutes to explain their plan to get Hook and the suspicious “shipwreck” victims off the island.

“So you’re going to ask this…Hook person to sail Peter and me back to London?”

“Actually,” said Peter, “we’re not going to mention me.”

“Why not?” said Wendy.

“Hook thinks I’m dead,” said Peter.

“Why would he think that?” said Wendy.

“Because he killed me,” said Peter. “At least he thinks he did.”

This required several more minutes of explanation.

“So you see,” concluded Peter, “if Hook saw me on the ship, he would try to kill me again. He hates me.”

Peter seemed quite proud of this.

“So you’re
not
going on the ship with me?” said Wendy.

“Oh, I’ll be on the ship,” said Peter. “I’ll hide in the sails. I’ve done it before.”

And it was horrible,
noted Tink.

“And what makes you so sure that this Hook person will actually take me back to London?” said Wendy. “He sounds dreadful.”

“He is dreadful,” said Fighting Prawn. “But he will take you back, for two reasons. First, I will make him give me his word.”

“And he is a man of his word?” said Wendy.

“Of course not,” said Fighting Prawn. “But the second reason will be convincing. I will explain to him that if you are not returned safely to England, I will find him, wherever he is, and feed him to Mister Grin.”

“Mister who?” said Wendy.

“Grin,” said Fighting Prawn. “A very large crocodile.”

“With a very large appetite for Hook,” added Peter.

“Oh my,” said Wendy.

For a moment, the three of them were silent. Then Wendy said, “So if I understand this correctly, you propose to send me to England on a ship captained by a murderous pirate, with a crew of cutthroats, and fellow passengers who are probably here on false pretenses and up to no good, with my only guarantee of safety being a threat of death by crocodile, and a flying boy hiding in the sails?”

Fighting Prawn and Peter looked at each other, then nodded.

“Yes,” said Fighting Prawn. “That is what we propose.”

“When do we sail?” said Wendy.

I
CE
C
OFFIN

B
EWILDERED, FRUSTRATED, ANGRY
, G
EORGE
D
ARLING
walked the streets of London, oblivious to the gusting wind and the hard, cold rain streaming down his face, soaking his clothes. He didn’t want to go home to his empty house. He couldn’t sleep anyway, not when he knew that both his daughter and wife were out there, somewhere, in need of help.

His help.

He understood now that the police were not going to find them. He’d placed yet another a call to Cambridgeshire, only to be told the search for Wendy had been called off because of darkness and the same horrible weather that was assaulting London. It was a rainstorm of biblical proportions, made worse by the fog that oozed up from the Thames, blanketing the streets like a thick smoke, making it impossible to see more than a few feet.

The blackness around George matched his mood. Utterly helpless, unable to think of any way to find his wife and daughter, he was spiraling downward to despair. He walked the streets of Knightsbridge like a zombie, without direction or reason.

Despite the weather, he was not alone. A few determined souls braved the deluge, some darting into pubs, others simply trying to get home. They walked quickly, heads bent, leaning into the gale, splashing through the slop that overflowed the gutters and sanitary ditches meant to carry the city’s stinking waste to the sewers, the river, and eventually out to sea.

George plodded along, sometimes pinching his nose to block out the foul smells, paying scant attention to the few pedestrians he encountered. He had been walking for two hours, maybe more, when he realized that he was close by the entrance to the Sloane Square Underground Station. He turned toward it, a vague plan forming in his mind. His wife—why hadn’t he believed her?—had told him a bobby had tried to grab her in the Underground. Perhaps there was something down there, some clue. …

It wasn’t much, but it was better than aimless wandering. George turned toward the Underground. From close behind he heard the
clop-clop
of horse’s hooves splashing on the cobbled street. He glanced back and was surprised to see, emerging through the fog, the familiar white boxy shape of an ice cart. Strange to see one so late—the ice men usually came around in the morning, delivering to the better homes of the neighborhood.

The cart was heading directly toward him, as if the driver did not see him in the fog. George stepped aside at the last second. The cart brushed him, knocking him backward.

“Mind your way, driver!” he shouted, recovering his balance.

He heard splashing behind him. He started to turn, then felt powerful hands grip his arms and lift him off his feet. A man on each side. Big men, and very strong. They lifted him without apparent effort.

“Let go! LET ME GO!” shouted George, struggling to free himself. It was useless. The men swiftly carried him to the ice cart, where a canvas tarpaulin had been pulled back, revealing blocks of ice stacked so that there was a space between them just wide enough for …

A man’s body.

He struggled harder, kicking with all his strength. But the big men overpowered him easily, shoving him headfirst into the space between the ice blocks. A third man—apparently the cart driver—helped them to pin him down. George heard a grinding sound and realized that the men were sliding heavy blocks of ice across the space over him. He tried to raise himself up, only to bang his head painfully on the cold, hard block above. He shouted for help, but heard nothing in response except the grunting of the men imprisoning him, and the howl of the unrelenting storm.

He continued to struggle as more blocks were dragged into place above and behind him. Finally the men stopped holding him. They didn’t need to: he was imprisoned in an ice coffin, cold and pitch black. He shouted once more but he knew it was useless: the ice imprisoned the sound as it imprisoned him.

He felt a rumble.

The cart was moving.

George, his arms pinned to his sides, his face pressed against the rough wooden cart floor, shivered violently in his sodden clothing. His only hope was that the men who had captured him were the same men who had captured his wife. If that was so, maybe he would see her. Maybe he could find a way to help her …

If he could find a way to stay alive.

W
ORRIES

T
HE SHIP FORMERLY KNOWN AS
the
De Vliegen
and now as the
Jolly Roger
was ready to sail. The sails themselves looked a bit odd—the Mollusks had made them by tightly weaving fibers stripped from the stems of a hardy, thick jungle plant they called the salamander vine. The resulting sails were strong and supple, but Hook was not happy with the color. Not happy at all.

“Pink?” he said, upon first seeing them.
“PINK?”

The sails were, in fact, an especially bright shade of pink.

“Yes, Cap’n,” said Smee, “I think they’re lovely.”

Hook slowly turned to face his first mate. This was usually a bad sign.

“Smee,” Hook said calmly.

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“We are pirates, are we not?”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“So this is a
pirate ship,
is it not?”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“And when we, as pirates, bear down upon our victims at sea, what emotion do we want them to feel?”

Smee frowned. “I don’t know, Cap’n.”

“FEAR, YOU IDJIT!” bellowed Hook, nearly knocking Smee over. “We want them to be terrified of us, do you understand?”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“We want them saying ‘Oh no! Pirates! We’re doomed!’”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“We do not want them saying ‘Oh, look at the lovely pink sails!’”

“Yes, Cap’n. I mean, no, Cap’n.”

Hook went to Fighting Prawn to complain about the sails. Fighting Prawn informed Hook that the sails could not be changed.

“But what pirate ship has pink sails?” demanded Hook.

“Yours, apparently,” said Fighting Prawn, displaying not the tiniest hint of a smile.