Peter and the Sword of Mercy (53 page)

“PRAWN!”

The shout came from inside the cave. Fighting Prawn recognized the voice.

“I am here, O’Neal,” he called down.

“We seem to have a problem,” said O’Neal.

“We will not have a problem,” said Fighting Prawn, “if you release my daughter, and leave the island. I will let you go unharmed. You have my word.”

“With the starstuff?”

“No,” said Fighting Prawn. “That is ours.”

“Then we still have a problem,” said O’Neal.

A pause, then a new, harsher voice came from the cave: “Prawn!”

“Who are you?” said Fighting Prawn.

“I am Captain Nerezza. And I believe I have something of value to you.”

There was a whimper, and then Nerezza appeared just inside the cave entrance. His right hand held a knife; his left gripped Shining Pearl by the hair. His eyes were on Mister Grin, who watched from fifteen yards away, apparently judging Nerezza to be too close to the safety of the cave to be worth pursuing, at least at the moment.

Across the clearing, Fighting Prawn saw warriors fitting arrows to their bows. Nerezza saw it, too. He pressed his knife blade against Shining Pearl’s neck.

“If I die,” he said, “she’ll die first.”

Fighting Prawn grunted a command. The warriors lowered their bows.

Fighting Prawn’s eyes went back to his daughter. Speaking in the Mollusk language, he said, “Are you all right?”

She started to answer in Mollusk.

“Speak English!” snarled Nerezza, jerking her hair.

“I asked her if she was all right,” said Fighting Prawn.

“Yes,” she answered, tears spilling from her eyes. “Oh, Father, I’m so sorry, I just wanted to …”

She was silenced by another jerk from Nerezza.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Now, listen, Prawn. If you want her to stay alive, you will do two things. You will get that croc away from here, far away. And you will give me and my men—and the starstuff—free passage to our boat, and then back to the ship. I will have my knife at your daughter’s throat the whole time.”

There was a low growl. Mister Grin was apparently becoming more interested in the humans at the cave mouth. He moved forward a few feet.

“Get rid of him,” said Nerezza, nodding toward the monster croc.

“How can I do that?” said Fighting Prawn.

“You’ll think of something,” said Nerezza. “You had better.”

Still holding Shining Pearl’s hair, he yanked her roughly back into the cave.

T
HE
E
MPTY
S
EA

W
AKE UP
!

Tink’s urgent chime aroused Peter from his stupor. He saw that this time he had descended to less than fifty feet above the wave tops.

He grunted, forcing himself to rise. His arms and legs felt like stone. He had never tried to fly the whole distance between England and Mollusk Island; he’d always had a ship to rest on.

He gained some altitude and glanced ahead, seeing nothing but the vast, empty sea.

“How far?” he asked Tink, as he had many times.

We’re getting closer,
she answered, as she always did.

“I don’t know if I can make it,” he said.

You have to make it,
she said.

“Tink,” he said. “I can’t.”

He felt himself drifting downward again. He fought to stop, but could not. He had nothing left.

“I just can’t,” he whispered. His eyes started to close.
I see a ship,
said Tink.

S
AFE
P
ASSAGE

A
BOARD THE
Jolly Roger, there was mutiny in the air.

The collision with the steamer had left the ship a barely floating wreck—her masts and spars smashed, her sails in tatters, her hull a sieve of leaks. They had made what repairs they could, and jury-rigged a sad pink sail. But she was hardly seaworthy, capable of making one or two knots at best. And the men had to work constantly at the pumps—twenty-four hours a day, day after exhausting day—to keep her from sinking.

The food was gone, and the water barrel was down to the last few putrid inches. The sun was blistering hot. Every man on board had one goal: to get back to Mollusk Island. That was their only hope; that was what kept them going.

And now they had come to a horrible realization.

Hook was lost.

He would not admit it, of course; he was
Captain Hook,
and Captain Hook did not make mistakes, especially not nautical ones. But the signs were unmistakable to everyone except the blindly loyal Smee. The ship had been going in circles—big, slow circles.

Clearly, Hook had no idea where the island was.

The question now was, what to do about it.

The sailors who were not on pump or lookout duty had gathered on the foredeck to discuss this matter. Hook, with Smee at this side, was at the helm, sitting slumped on a crate. Theoretically, he was steering; but as often was the case of late, he did not appear to be particularly concerned about what his course was.

The crew members had decided something needed to be done, and were now discussing what it would be. They were evenly divided: half wanted to throw Hook over the side; the other half wanted to slit his throat,
then
throw him over the side.

Either way, he was gone. The lone remaining question was who would become the new captain. This was a trickier issue, for Hook, despite his many flaws, was by far the most skilled navigator on the ship. If he was lost, the rest of them would be even more lost.

The crew was debating its next course of action when a hoarse cry came from one of the lookouts.

“It’s him!” he shouted. “The flying boy!”

Hook was off the crate in an instant, whirling around, scanning the sky.

“Where?” he shouted.

And then he saw Peter, a few hundred yards off, flying toward the ship erratically and low to the water, clearly in trouble.

“Smee,” said Hook.

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Fetch my pistol.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Smee disappeared below, returning moments later with the pistol, which he handed to Hook. Peter was now almost to the ship. Catching sight of Hook, he reacted with obvious surprise, and seemed about to veer away. But he had no strength left. With a last desperate lunge he swerved upward, landing precariously in the rigging above the ship’s lone fluttering sail.

He looked down at Hook, who looked back up at him.

“Hello, boy,” said Hook. Slowly, dramatically, he raised the pistol and pointed it at Peter.

“Good-bye, boy,” he said.

He pulled the trigger.

The pistol went
click.
Hook stared at it disbelief.

“SMEE!” he bellowed.

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“THERE ARE NO BULLETS IN THIS PISTOL!”

“No, Cap’n. There’s none on board.”

“THEN WHY DID YOU HAND ME THE PISTOL, SMEE? WHAT DID YOU THINK I PLANNED TO DO WITH IT?”

Smee frowned, thinking about it. Finally he came to a conclusion. “I don’t know,” he said.

Hook hurled the pistol to the deck and turned toward the sailors on the foredeck, who were watching these proceedings with interest.

“You and you!” Hook said, pointing to the two closest men. “Climb up there and
bring me that boy!”

The two men looked at each other.

“No,” said one, a big man named Crankins.

“No?” screamed Hook. “NO?? I AM YOUR CAPTAIN, AND I GAVE YOU AN ORDER.!”

Crankins glared defiantly back at Hook. “You ain’t the captain anymore,” he said.

“WHAT??” screamed Hook.

“I said you ain’t the captain.”

“Says who?”

“Says all of us.” The other sailors nodded, gathering behind their new spokesman.

Hook, always one to sense a shift in the wind, suddenly switched to a more reasonable tone.

“Listen, men,” he said. “I know things haven’t gone well for us lately. But all that will change soon, when we reach the island.”

“You don’t know where the island is!” shouted a sailor. “You’re lost!” The others murmured agreement.

“Lost?” said Hook. “Of course I’m not lost!”

“Then which way is the island?” said Crankins.

“That way,” said Hook, pointing confidently with his hook. “South by southwest.”

“That’s what you say now,” shouted a voice. “Yesterday you were steering northeast!”

“But…but…” Hook sputtered. The men were advancing toward him, and he saw by the look in their eyes that they were done with talking.

“Wait!” called a voice from the rigging.

The sailors stopped and looked up at Peter.

“What?” said Crankins.

“I know where the island is,” he said. “Actually, she does.” He pointed to Tink, sitting in his hair.

“Which way?” shouted a sailor.

“We’ll lead you there,” said Peter. Tink chimed something in his ear. “We’ll have you there in a day, if you’ll give us safe passage.”

The men spoke among themselves for a moment. Then Crankins looked up at Peter.

“All right,” he said. “Safe passage.”

Peter slumped against the rigging, relief filling his exhausted body.

“We’re going to make it, Tink,” he whispered.

Not
if he can help it,
said Tink, pointing down. Peter looked at Hook. The pirate captain was glaring back up at him, his dark eyes glittering with hate.

T
HE
S
MILE

T
HE PLAN WAS SIMPLE
. Very dangerous, but simple.

Bold Abalone and Fleet Snail would be the lures. Fleet Snail was the fastest warrior on the island, so he was a logical choice. Bold Abalone was not nearly as fast, but as the chief’s son, he insisted on being one of the two.