The next morning, Wendy hurried downstairs in search of her uncle, only to be told by Mrs. Blotney, Uncle Neville’s long-suffering housekeeper, that Uncle Neville and her brothers had already eaten breakfast.
“They’ve gone out to the barn,” sighed Mrs. Blotney. “He’s going to try to fly that ornithopter contraption again. I’ve already sent for the doctor.”
“Oh dear,” said Wendy. Ignoring the plate of food Mrs. Blotney had set out for her, she ran out the door and down the gravel road to the barn. In the big meadow behind it, she found John and Michael watching excitedly as Uncle Neville, screwdriver in hand, tinkered with the gasoline motor on his flying contraption, which looked like a large, ungainly headless bird.
“Uncle Neville,” she began.
“Just a moment,” said Uncle Neville, frowning as he turned a screw.
“It’s going to fly!” said Michael. “It’s a…a…ornihopper!”
“Ornithopter, you ninny,” said John.
“That’s what I said,” said Michael.
“Uncle Neville,” Wendy repeated, “I just wanted to …”
“There!” said Uncle Neville, setting down his screwdriver.
He grabbed the motor’s starter crank and shouted, “Stand back!”
“But …” said Wendy, but Uncle Neville was already turning the crank.
With a loud BANG the motor emitted a cloud of smoke and sputtered to life, clacking and rattling. The ornithopter’s giant silk-and-feather wings slowly moved up, then down, then up again.
“It’s going to fly!” shouted Michael over the engine clatter.
“Yes!” shouted Uncle Neville, admiring the sight. “I believe it is!”
The wings were beating faster now.
“Uncle Neville!” shouted John, as the ornithopter began bouncing up and down on its wheeled carriage.
“What is it, lad?” shouted Uncle Neville.
“Aren’t you going to get on it?” shouted John.
“Oh my goodness!” cried Uncle Neville. He scurried around the side of the ornithopter, forced to take a long route to avoid the huge wings, now beating quite rapidly. Having cleared the wing, he lunged toward the pilot platform attached to the ornithopter frame.
Too late. With a mighty downsweep of its wings, the ornithopter leaped off the ground, its wheels just shooting clear of Uncle Neville’s grasping fingers. He watched helplessly as his invention rose into the air and, gaining altitude, began to flap its way across the meadow. Uncle Neville began to run after it, puffing hard; he was followed by John and Michael, both whooping with delight.
The three of them had gone about twenty yards when Uncle Neville, looking up at the ornithopter, failed to notice a molehill in front of him. He tripped on it and fell on his face with an oof; John and Michael, right behind, went down on top of him in a tangle of arms and legs. The three of them were struggling to their feet when the ornithopter emitted several loud bangs, then a series of wheezes. Then the engine went silent, and the wings stopped.
“Oh dear,” said Uncle Neville, as the ornithopter began to come down. It descended in a gentle spiral, then picked up speed before crashing into the meadow with a whump and pitching over forward, very much as its inventor had. Uncle Neville, followed by John and Michael, puffed over to it. Wendy caught up with them a minute later. Uncle Neville was examining the frame, which was bent; one of the wings had broken off.
“Nothing serious,” Uncle Neville said cheerfully. “I’ll have it ready to fly again in a day or so.” He looked sheepish. “This time, I’ll remember to get on.”
“Uncle Neville is going to fly on the ornihopper!” said Michael.
“Ornithopter,” said John.
“That’s what I said,” said Michael.
“Uncle Neville,” said Wendy, “do you think it’s wise to get on? I mean, it did come down rather hard.”
“Nothing to worry about,” said Uncle Neville. “It just needs some adjusting.”
“I see,” said Wendy. “Um, I was wondering if it would be all right if I went to the university today, to see an old friend of…”
“The carburetor,” said Uncle Neville.
“I beg your pardon?” said Wendy.
“That’s what needs adjusting.”
“I see,” Wendy said doubtfully. “So would it be all right if I went to see him?”
“See who?”
“The old family friend.”
“Is he here?” said Uncle Neville, looking around the meadow.
“No,” said Wendy. “He’s at the university.”
Uncle Neville looked thoughtful for a few moments. Then he said, “I’ll need the screwdriver.”
“I’ll get it!” said John, racing toward the barn.
“I’ll get it, too!” said Michael, running behind his brother.
Wendy stood watching Uncle Neville, who looked at his ornithopter, then at her.
“We’re very close,” he said.
“So it’s all right if I go to see him?” said Wendy.
“Who?” said Uncle Neville.
“The family friend,” said Wendy. “I’ll be back for supper.”
“Oh, it’s far too early for supper,” said Uncle Neville. “I’ve just had breakfast.”
“Right,” said Wendy. “Then I’ll see you later, when I get back from the university, all right?”
Uncle Neville seemed not to hear her. He was looking at the ornithopter again.
“Very close,” he said.
Wendy was lucky: Uncle Neville’s groundskeeper was taking his wagon into Cambridge that morning for supplies, and he agreed to let Wendy ride along. He dropped her off in Trumpington Street, near the town center; they arranged to meet there in three hours for the return trip.
As the wagon rumbled away, Wendy realized she faced a daunting task: the University of Cambridge consisted of many colleges, and many more buildings. But again luck was with her, in the form of a young male student walking past.
“Excuse me,” said Wendy. “I’m trying to find a Mr. Pratt.”
“Would that be Dr. Theodore Pratt?” the student said.
“Yes!” said Wendy, now remembering the first name. “Is his office nearby?”
“Couldn’t be much nearer,” said the student. “He’s a history fellow at Peterhouse. Go right through there; his office is in the second building on your right, third floor.”
Wendy thanked him and found her way to the brick building. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and found Dr. Pratt’s office. The door was open; inside she saw a stocky man with a genial round face reading a book. He sat at a desk covered with books, many open; more books—hundreds more—lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves covering two walls. Still more books were stacked in piles on the floor and on two old overstuffed chairs.
Wendy tapped on the door and said, “Dr. Pratt?”
“Yes?” said the man, looking up from his book. When he saw Wendy, he gasped.
“Young lady, forgive me for staring,” he said. “But you look exactly like a girl I used to know.”
“Molly Aster Darling,” said Wendy. “I’m her daughter.”
With a roar of delight, he rose from his desk, knocking several books to the floor, and lumbered over to Wendy. He started to hug her, but realizing that was a bit informal, he settled for vigorously shaking her hand.
“How delightful!” he said. “Last I saw you, you were just a baby, but here you’ve turned out every bit as beautiful as your mother!”
“Thank you, Dr. Pratt,” said Wendy, blushing.
“You must call me Uncle Ted,” he insisted. “It has been a while, but your mother and grandfather will always be family to me. How are they?”
Wendy said nothing, but the look on her face gave Ted his answer.
“Oh dear,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”
Wendy nodded, fighting back tears.
Ted closed the door and ushered Wendy to one of the overstuffed chairs, sweeping the books to the floor so s
he could sit. He then did the same with the other chair and sat down.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me.”
It took a while; Wendy broke down crying when she talked about the disappearance of her mother, and as the rest of the story unfolded, Ted often interrupted her with questions. He became particularly excited when Wendy told him her grandfather’s story about Curtana.
“The Sword of Mercy!” he exclaimed.
“You’re familiar with it?”
“Indeed I am,” said Ted. “One of the history fellows here, a close friend of mine named Patrick Hunt, is an authority on it. He’d be quite interested to learn that the missing tip has been found, after all these centuries. But if your grandfather is right—and I have rarely known him to be wrong—this is a very serious matter indeed.”
“Yes,” said Wendy. “If the Others have found it, they’ll be able to open the Cache.”
“And you’re certain your grandfather didn’t tell you where this…Cache is located?”
“Only that it’s in London,” said Wendy. She hesitated, then added, “And he said something about ‘confess.‘”
“Confess what?”
“I don’t know. He just said ‘confess,’ and then he lost consciousness.”
Ted nodded, then said, “Who else have you told about this?”
“Aside from you, nobody,” said Wendy.
“Why not your father? He’s an influential man, and I’m certain he’s as worried about your mother as you are. And he’s dealt with the Others—he knows the danger.”
Wendy shook her head. “He insists that this is best handled by the police.”
“But you say the police are in on it!”
“I’m sure they are, at least some of them. But Father trusts them. And he’s very reluctant to say anything about starstuff, or the Others, or this Ombra. He says it’s ghost stories. He’s concerned about what people will think.”
Ted nodded, smiling ruefully. “That sounds like George,” he said.
“That’s why I’ve come to you, Dr. Pr—I mean, Uncle Ted,” said Wendy. “Mr. Smith said you were on that island, with mother and the flying boy, Peter.”
“Yes,” Ted said softly. “There were five of us from the St. Norbert’s orphanage—Peter, James, Prentiss, Thomas, and me. Four of us came back to England. But Peter chose to stay on the island.”
“But he came back to England once,” said Wendy. “To help my mother.”
Ted nodded. “That he did.”
“I want to ask him to help her again,” said Wendy.
“What?” said Ted.
“I must go to the island,” said Wendy. “I must talk to Peter.”
“But you can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because…Well, for one thing, how will you get there?”
“I don’t know,” said Wendy. “I’ll find a way.” Her hand went to the locket around her neck.
“But you don’t even know where the island is!” said Ted.
“No,” said Wendy. “That’s why I’ve come to you. You lived there once, for a long time, didn’t you?”
“But…Never Land. I don’t know exactly where …” said Ted. “It’s just a speck in the ocean, and it has been so many years …”
“Well, somebody must know,” said Wendy. “A ship’s captain? One of the others: Thomas…Prentiss?”
Ted stared at Wendy, then said, “I must say, you don’t just look like your mother. You have her…tenacity…as well.”
“I’m sorry,” said Wendy. “It’s just that—”
“Don’t apologize,” said Ted. “I always admired your mother’s spirit. It’s to your credit that you have the same qualities.”
“So you’ll help me?” said Wendy.
Ted frowned in contemplation. Finally he said, “There may be someone who knows how to get to that island.”
“Who is it?” said Wendy eagerly.
“It’s someone I haven’t seen in many years,” said Ted. “Someone who may not even still be living.”
“But he or she might be?” said Wendy. “Alive? Able to help us?”
“He…yes. He just might be, yes,” said Ted. “But even if we can locate him, there’s the question of how we will communicate with him.”
“What do you mean?” said Wendy.
“You may not believe this,” said Ted, “but he happens to be a porpoise.”
Wendy smiled.
“Is something funny?”
“You may not believe this,” said Wendy, “but I happen to speak Porpoise.”
CHAPTER 19
A TINY SHOOTING STAR
“HOLD HIM TIGHT!” ROARED HOOK, as five pirates disentangled Peter from the net. “If he gets loose, I’ll feed the lot of you to the crocodile!”
Five pairs of rough hands gripped Peter even tighter. He struggled, but it was hopeless, one boy against five men.
“Smee, fetch me his dagger,” said Hook. The short, round first mate plucked the dagger from the ground and scurried over to hand it to Hook. Hook waved it at Peter as the sailors dragged him past.
“You won’t be needing this anymore, boy,” he sneered, tucking it into his belt.
The pirates shoved Peter into a cage made of rough wooden slats. They secured the cage door from the outside with heavy rope; from inside, Peter couldn’t reach the knots. The cage was too small for him to stand in; he crouched on the floor, peering through the cracks between the slats, looking for …
There she was: a sparkle of light on top of one of the pirate huts, looking like one of the many stars dotting the now-black sky. Peter knew Tink would try to get help for him. But how?
“What have we got here?” Hook said, picking the coconut off the ground. “Thought you were going to drop this on me, did you, boy?” He examined it by the torchlight.
“What’s this?” he said, peering at the writing. “’Cap…tain…Hook …’ Say! That’s me!” He read on. ‘“I porpoise a…’”
“Um, Cap’n,” said Smee, on tiptoe, looking over Hook’s shoulder. “I b’lieve it says propose.”
“I know that, you idjit!” said Hook.
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“You think I’m some idjit who never learned to read?” said Hook, who in fact never had learned to read, as he had begun a full-time pirating career at an early age.
“No, Cap’n,” said Smee.
“Porpoise, indeed,” said Hook. “I was making a joke, Smee. But since you think you know so much about reading, then you read it.”
Hook shoved the coconut into Smee’s hands. Hook and the other pirates gathered around and listened intently as Smee, squinting at the squid-ink letters, read Fighting Prawn’s message aloud. Everyone’s eyes then turned to Hook.
“Read the part about the ship again,” Hook said.
Smee read: “‘My men will repair your ship and provision it so you can leave the island permanently.’”
“Permanently.” Hook inhaled through his nose, filling his lungs, then exhaled so hard that the few wisps of hair on Smee’s head blew backward. The smell of fish lingered in the air.
“Repair the ship,” Hook muttered.
“It’s almost too good to be true!” said Smee.
“For once you’re right, Smee. It is too good to be true. Has to be trap. A clever trap, cleverly designed by the cunning savages to lure us into…a trap. They think I’m a fool, Smee.”
“But a request for a parley,” Smee said, studying the coconut. “Don’t we have to honor that, Cap’n? Isn’t that the Code?”
“I know the Code, Smee,” said Hook.
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“Don’t be telling me the Code.”
“No, Cap’n.”
“But since you’re so…particular about the Code,” said Hook, “I suppose you’d be volunteering to go arrange the parley.”
Smee gulped and looked around. The other pirates had all backed away, leaving Smee alone.
“I…ah …” he began.
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“Good!” said Hook. He looked over at Peter’s cage, thinking. After about a minute, he said, “Now, here’s what you do, Smee. You tell the savage Prawn that I’ll parley with him. Tell him we each bring three men, no more. But tell him I want to have the parley at sea, out past the reef off the lagoon, because I don’t want any of his savages sneaking up. Tell him that for insurance, I’ll be bringing the flying devil boy with me on the raft, in a cage, and if the savages try anything, the boy gets my hook across his throat.”
“But, Cap’n,” said Smee. “If you hurt the boy, Fighting Prawn will kill you. He’d kill us all.”
“I KNOW THAT, YOU IDJIT!”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“When I go for the parley, I’ll listen to what Prawn has to offer. Then I’ll tell him that before I make any agreements, I need to consult with my crew.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Cap’n,” said Smee.
Hook rubbed his forehead with his non-hook hand.
“Smee,” he said. “You have the brains of a clam.”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“No, that is unfair to clams, Smee. Compared to you, a clam is a genius. A clam is Aristotle.”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“I’m not really going to consult with the crew, Smee. I’m going to tell Prawn to wait right there while I go back to talk with you lot. Then, on our way back, when we’re at a spot where Prawn can see us but he’s too far away to help, the raft will just happen to have a slight disagreement with the reef, and the lashing, which will be made loose before we depart herewith, will come untied, resulting in the purely accidental tragedy of all hands going overboard, along with the cage holding the flying boy. Boggs and Hurky and I will be able to swim ashore, but the cage, alas, will go straight to the bottom, dragged down by the rocks inside.”
“But there’s no rocks in the cage,” said Smee.
“There will be,” said Hook.
Peter and the Sword of Mercy Page 9
