“It’s a wonder they can navigate a ship,” he said.
“Is Peter in the cage?” said Brazen Starfish.
Fighting Prawn squinted. “Yes, I see his red hair,” he said. “Give the signal.”
Brazen Starfish, sitting on the side of the canoe away from the pirates, slapped the water with his paddle four times. Fighting Prawn saw a swirl of water, like a small rogue wave, near the edge of the reef. He nodded. His eyes then turned skyward, and, with effort, picked up a tiny bright speck shooting toward the pirate raft, approaching it from an angle such that if the pirates looked toward it, they would be blinded by the sun. But the pirates’ attention was focused on the Mollusk canoe; none of them saw the speck dart into the cage.
Tinker Bell landed in the crook of Peter’s elbow. He smiled, enormously relieved to see her; it was all he could do to keep from speaking. She darted to his head, nestling into his bushy red hair. She moved to his right ear and chimed quietly so the pirates wouldn’t hear.
We have a plan, she said.
“Good,” whispered Peter. “What is it?”
Instead of answering, Tink burrowed into his hair. He looked up and saw why: Hook had his face pressed to the cage.
“Who are you talking to, boy?” he said.
“A rock,” said Peter. “And it’s smarter than you.”
The rowers giggled. Hook shot them a silencing glare. Turning back to Peter, he said, “That’s a funny joke, boy. You can tell that one to the fish when you get to the bottom of the sea. Meanwhile, here’s a joke for you.” He spat a foul gob at the cage; Peter turned away in disgust as it spattered him through the bars.
“Now, listen, boy,” said Hook, leaning close. “I’ll have this spear by your neck during the parley. If you say one word to the savages—if you so much as sneeze—I will bring the spear down, and your head and body will no longer be acquainted.”
Smee said, “Approaching the canoe, Cap’n.”
“Not one word,” Hook snarled at Peter. To the rowers he said, “Keep us at a comfortable distance.”
As the two vessels neared each other, Tink dropped back to Peter’s arm, holding a tiny finger to her tiny lips to remind him not to speak. He made a shrugging gesture to ask her What’s the plan?
No time, she chimed back, and in a flash she was gone, unobserved by the pirates, whose attention was on the Mollusk canoe, now only about fifteen feet away.
“Don’t come any closer!” said Hook. He held the spear up so Fighting Prawn could see it, then held it over the cage, its deadly tip pointed at Peter. “If I see anything tricky from you savages, I’ll run the boy through, savvy?”
“There is no need to hurt the boy,” said Fighting Prawn. “I am offering you a chance to leave the island.”
“So your coconut said,” replied Hook. “But why would you make such an offer?”
“We don’t like you,” said Fighting Prawn.
“Fair enough,” said Hook. “I don’t like you, either. But I’ve been here twenty years and more. Why make this offer now?”
“Because some other white men came ashore, shipwrecked,” said Fighting Prawn. “We want them gone. You will take them with you.”
Hook thought about that. “Say the rest,” he said.
“My men will repair your ship and supply it with food and water,” said Fighting Prawn. “We will provide you with four seaworthy canoes for lifeboats. I give you my word we will make no attempt to harm you or your men. In return, you give me your word that you will leave and never come back.”
“Cap’n,” whispered Smee, “it sounds like a good bargain.”
“Shut up, Smee,” said Hook.
“Aye, aye,” said Smee.
Hook studied the Mollusk chief across the short expanse of water. His face was calm, but his mind was racing. He had realized, to his surprise, that the Mollusk chief was sincere: he actually intended to help the pirates leave the island. That was good. But Hook did not want to give up on his plan to drown the boy. He had waited too many years for his moment of sweet revenge. He would have to handle this just right. The savage had to believe that the boy’s death was an accident. That way he would still allow Hook to leave unpunished.
It was perfect, Hook decided. He would rid himself of the boy forever, and get off this wretched island. A brilliant plan. Hook was only sorry that everyone around him was too stupid to admire it.
He smiled at Fighting Prawn. “All right, then,” he said. “We have an accord. If you don’t mind, I won’t shake your hand on it, so we’ll have to do with a nod.” Hook nodded.
Fighting Prawn nodded back. “So now you can let the boy go,” he said.
Hook shook his head. “Sorry, chief,” he said. “The boy is my insurance. I don’t plan on letting him go until you’ve completed your end of the deal. When the ship is ready, the boy goes free. Not before.”
Fighting Prawn said nothing, his eyes on the spear tip at Peter’s neck. After a moment, Hook barked an order to his men to turn the raft around. Peter pressed his face to the cage slats, his eyes meeting Fighting Prawn’s. Peter couldn’t read the expression on the Mollusk chief’s face. Didn’t he know what Hook planned to do? Hadn’t Tink warned him? Or did he actually believe the pirate was telling the truth?
Is he going to just let Hook take me away?
The raft was moving away now. The canoe began to turn. Peter started to cry out to Fighting Prawn, but Hook, expecting this, touched the spear tip to Peter’s neck. Peter felt blood trickle.
“One word, boy,” said Hook, “and you die right here and now.”
Desperately, Peter weighed the situation. If he shouted to Fighting Prawn, Hook would spear him. But Hook planned to drown him soon, anyway. His only hope was that the plan Tink told him about would work. But what was the plan?
He watched helplessly as the Mollusk canoe, propelled by the paddles of the four strong warriors, pulled swiftly away, growing smaller in the distance. Fighting Prawn was still looking back toward the raft but had made no move to rescue Peter. The pirates, meanwhile, were paddling the raft toward the outer reef and the deep water just beyond it. Peter heard the crashing of waves against the reef, and felt the ocean swells lifting and lowering the raft. He imagined the depths beneath him and what it would feel like to plunge into them, imprisoned by the weighted cage.
Hook, seeing the fear on Peter’s face, cackled. “You can shout all you want now, boy,” he said. “The savage can’t hear you. The primitive fool actually believed I’d let you live.”
With a glance at the receding Mollusk canoe, Hook casually curled the toes of his bare right foot around a rope and pulled it; a knot came loose. Hook used his left foot to loosen another. The raft shifted. Water gushed up into Peter’s cage. The spaces between the logs were getting wider.
“Oh dear,” said Hook. “Looks like we’re having a spot of trouble.” He smiled at Peter, his black eyes glittering.
“Good-bye, boy,” he said.
“Mr. Smee,” Peter pleaded. “This isn’t right.”
Smee could not bring himself to look at Peter. He shuffled his bare feet on the raft, his head bent.
“Okay, boys,” said Hook. “Make it look good, now. Put her into that surf at the edge of the reef.”
Peter looked back toward the Mollusk canoe. It was still heading away. He was desperate now, moving from wall to wall in the cage, looking for some way out, knowing there was none.
The raft was almost on the reef. The gaps between the raft logs increased. Smee’s leg slipped through a gap, and he went down. A wave lifted the raft, and suddenly it broke apart, now just a loose tangle of logs and boards.
“HELP!” bellowed Hook. “HEEEELLLLPPP!”
Peter’s cage was precariously balanced between two logs. It began to slip off. Peter looked frantically back toward the island and saw that the canoe, now little more than a speck in the distance, was turning around. They were coming back.
Too late.
Peter screamed as his c
age slipped off the logs and into the sea. As it went under, Peter gulped a last breath. The surging water surrounded him; underwater, he heard the dull roar of the waves, saw the pirates’ legs kicking above him as the heavy rocks dragged him down, down …
A wave broke above him, clouding the water with foam and air.
Down, down …
He jammed his hands, painfully, through the cage, fumbling for the knots holding it together. It was no use. There were far too many knots, and far too little time. His lungs were starting to burn.
Down, down …
The water grew darker; the light and sound of the surface far above now.
Down, down …
Only blackness now. His lungs were on fire. He swallowed water. He was losing consciousness.
He felt something tug on the cage, pulling it through the water. He looked around desperately but could see only blackness.
And then there was nothing.
Peter! Peter!
The voice was urgent. Peter tried to answer but could not. He rolled sideways, vomiting seawater, then coughing violently, his throat raw. He blinked, but could see little. Wherever he was, it was dark and damp. He was lying on rock. He could hear the roar of waves nearby. He could make out the outline of a woman’s head, her hair long and wet.
You are safe, Peter.
He realized that the voice, unlike the sound of the waves, was coming from inside his head.
“Teacher?” he croaked.
I’m here, responded the mermaid, her thoughts becoming his thoughts.
“Where am I?” he said.
A cave in the reef. You are safe.
“Thank you.”
I’m sorry it took so long to reach you. Chief didn’t want the pirate to see.
Peter understood. Fighting Prawn wanted to make sure Peter and the mermaid were safely out of Hook’s murderous reach.
“Can I go back now?”
Chief wants you to wait here until the pirates return to their side.
Peter nodded, seeing the cleverness of Fighting Prawn’s plan: let Hook think he had succeeded in killing Peter. Let him think he had outwitted the “savage.” Then get him off the island.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll stay here until Hook’s gone.”
Good. Teacher smiled, revealing her sharp, pointed teeth. You need to rest.
Peter lay back on the rock, resting. For the first time, he thought about what the island would be like without Hook.
He wondered if his life would become boring.
CHAPTER 22
DANGER COMING
EACH DAY MOLLY FOUGHT A GRIM BATTLE against loneliness and despair.
Nobody spoke to her. She called out to the guards, pleading with them for information, or even just human conversation, but they never answered. And so she sat, day after day, in the tiny, dank, foul-smelling cell, sometimes sobbing quietly, sometimes talking to herself, finding it harder and harder to keep out the awful thought:
I will never get out of here.
She had no way to mark the passage of time save by the delivery of the awful food and the wretched, twice-daily spectacle of the exhausted prisoners trudging past. She dared not call out to them, for fear the guards would hurt them. But she waited for them eagerly, listening for the clanking of their chains in the hallway, pressing her face to her cell bars in anticipation of the only real human contact in her otherwise relentlessly bleak day.
As the prisoners passed, she and James always met eyes, each trying to cheer the other up, to communicate the simple message: I’m still here, still alive.
But James was not the only prisoner with whom she exchanged looks. She was now certain that she knew the fourth man in line, the one who had looked at her so intently when she arrived. It took her several days to recognize him, but once she did, she was sure.
It was Thomas.
He had clearly been down in the tunnels longer than the others. His face was gaunt, his arms and legs bone-thin, his filthy clothes nothing but shreds and tatters. But it was Thomas.
Molly had spent a great deal of time—time was all she had—thinking about what his presence meant. She understood why she and James had been taken captive; they had learned von Schatten’s secret. But as far as Molly knew, Thomas knew nothing about von Schatten. Yet he had apparently been taken captive before either James or Molly.
Why?
The more Molly thought about it, the more certain she became that the reason had to be the island. Very few people even knew of its existence; Thomas had actually lived there. Molly believed that was why he had been captured: von Schatten, or Ombra, or whatever he was, wanted Thomas’s knowledge of the island. If Molly was right, there was a connection between the island and the strange activity in the Underground.
What was it?
Molly didn’t know the answer. But she knew that whatever it was, it could only mean trouble for the island and her dear friends who lived there. She wished there were some way she could send a warning to let Peter and the Mollusks know that they were in danger. But she couldn’t even get a message to the streets of London above her, let alone to an island far out at sea. She could only clutch the bars of her tiny, dim cell, waiting for the next brief glimpse of James and Thomas, her next brief chance to exchange the unspoken message that had become the only thing that any of them had left to cling to.
I’m still alive.
CHAPTER 23
SIGNPOSTS IN THE SEA
WENDY HATED HERSELF for what she was about to do to Uncle Neville.
It’s for mother, she kept telling herself. But that didn’t make her feel any better.
She’d returned the evening before. Uncle Ted, who’d stayed in Harwich, had tried to talk her out of her plan, but Wendy could not be budged. His last words to her as he put her on the train were “Wendy, you’re every bit as stubborn as your mother. I just hope you’re also as resourceful.”
“I hope so, too,” replied Wendy.
She took a taxicab from the Cambridge train station to Uncle Neville’s estate. Nobody seemed suspicious; apparently Mrs. Blotney hadn’t noticed the Harwich postmark on the letter Wendy had sent.
The next morning Wendy awakened early and filled a cloth bag with supplies—bread, cheese, three apples, and a bottle of water. An hour later, at breakfast, she peppered Uncle Neville with questions about his ornithopter. He was happy to answer them; in fact, the ornithopter was all he wanted to talk about. He was giddy with anticipation, having finally finished repairing the odd-looking craft. He intended, despite Mrs. Blotney’s heartfelt pleadings, to make a test flight after breakfast.
John and Michael were so excited they could barely stay in their chairs. Every few seconds, Michael would shout, “Uncle Neville’s going to fly the ornihopper!” Each time, he emitted a spray of toast crumbs, and each time John corrected him, saying, “It’s ornithopter, you ninny.” But they were both too excited to get into serious quarreling.
Meanwhile, Wendy kept pressing for information. She had gotten Uncle Neville to explain the controls, which were quite simple—a lever for up and down, and another for steering. But the next issue was more worrisome.
“So…the motor,” Wendy said. “It uses gasoline?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Neville. “It’s quite a reliable motor. It has two cylinders and a four-stroke—”
“I see,” said Wendy. “And how long does the motor keep going before it runs out of fuel?”
Uncle Neville looked at the ceiling and scratched his cheek, thinking. Then he said, “I don’t know, actually, since it has never operated under flight conditions for more than a brief while without…ah…without …”
“Crashing,” said Mrs. Blotney.
“Quite so,” Uncle Neville agreed cheerfully. “But I imagine that with a full tank of fuel, it would run for, I should think, three or four hours.”
Wendy gulped. “Will the tank be full today?” she asked.
“Yes, I always fill it, just in case,” said Unc
le Neville. “Although I’m planning just a short flight today. I won’t be going to France, at least not yet, ha-ha!”
Wendy tried to smile, but her mind was buzzing with troubling thoughts. Three or four hours. That didn’t sound like nearly enough time, but it would have to do.
“All right, then!” said Uncle Neville, wiping his mouth, then tossing his napkin onto the table as he rose. “Wind is down and the sun is up! It’s time to fly!”
With a whoop apiece, John and Michael were racing to the front door. Uncle Neville was right behind, followed by Wendy, who was holding her cloth bag. A very unhappy Mrs. Blotney brought up the rear.
Two minutes later, Uncle Neville and the boys were swinging open the big barn doors. Just inside, the orniqthopter was waiting, its feathered wings arching out on both sides like enormous eyebrows.
Uncle Neville and the boys took hold of the orniqthopter frame and began rolling it out of the barn on its four small, wire-spoke wheels. Wendy went to help them, and as she grasped the wooden frame, she was struck by how flimsy it was—just sticks, really. The wings looked especially frail, literally made from feathers (ostrich, her uncle had told her). They were connected by wire cables to the two large control levers mounted next to the platform where the pilot stood. There was a smaller lever there also, connected by a cable to the motor. Wendy assumed this was the throttle.
The motor itself looked a bit more substantial than the rest of the craft, but Wendy knew nothing about what made it work; its wires, belts, and hoses were a mystery. She did note, with relief, that the fuel tank was on the side of the motor facing the pilot’s platform.
When the ornithopter had been wheeled into place, Uncle Neville lugged a red metal can out of the barn. Wendy, touching her golden locket, watched closely as he unscrewed the cap on top of the fuel tank and filled the tank with gasoline. He put the cap back on, tightened it, and wiped the tank with a rag. Then he spent a few minutes inspecting the motor and making some small adjustments.
“All right, then!” he said at last. “It’s time!”
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