She punched the board repeatedly into the small hole she’d carved behind the post. A tiny bit of clay and rock dislodged. At this rate, it was going to take forever.
But, she thought, if there was one thing she had a lot of, it was time.
Patience, she reminded herself. She stabbed the board into the hole.
And again …
And again …
CHAPTER 29
NOWHERE ELSE
WENDY’S LEFT EYE BLINKED OPEN. Her right eye felt glued shut. Her head pounded with pain. Her parched throat screamed for water.
But it was daylight. And she was still alive.
She felt the porpoises’ powerful bodies beneath her; felt the motion of the heaving sea. She was seized by a very unpleasant feeling in her stomach. She turned sideways, vomiting seawater onto one of the porpoises. She tried to say “I’m sorry” in Porpoise, but it came out as more of a croak. In any event, the porpoises didn’t seem to mind.
One of them surfaced close to Wendy’s face.
Fish? it said. It opened its mouth to reveal a dead cod.
Wendy nearly threw up again.
No thank you, she said. No fish. Water?
The porpoise regarded her for a moment. Then pirouetted full-circle, as if indicating the sea.
Water, it said.
No, said Wendy. She tried to think how to say “fresh water,” but the words didn’t come. Even if they had, she didn’t know how the porpoises would find fresh water out here. Wherever “here” was.
She leaned over and splashed some seawater on her face, trying to clean off the dried blood. She got her right eye open and gingerly felt the gash in her forehead. It was still painful, but the bleeding had slowed down to an ooze. That was something.
The porpoises carried her onward, taking shifts in groups of three or four. The sun rose swiftly in a blue, cloud-free sky; with it rose the temperature. The heat only made Wendy more thirsty. She took off her ripped coat and used it to form a crude pillow. In an hour, despite her thirst and discomfort, despite the sun’s glare, she fell back asleep, rocked on the backs of the porpoises.
She awoke with a start. The porpoises were making a lot of noise. She opened her eyes, then quickly closed them to block the glare of the sun, now nearly overhead.
She felt a shadow cross her face. Slowly, using her hand as a shade, she opened her eyes. She blinked, and saw him.
The flying boy.
He hung suspended over her, perhaps ten feet in the air. He wore tattered clothes, the pants and sleeves cut short, a knife tucked into his belt. His hair was a wild tangle of reddish-orange; his face a mass of freckles around an upturned nose and sparkling blue eyes.
“Hello, Peter,” Wendy croaked.
Instead of answering, he descended slowly, his feet crossed Indian-style, until he was hovering right next to her. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
“Molly,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I’m Wendy, Molly’s daughter.”
Peter nodded, and Wendy saw a flash of sadness in his eyes. “I guess I know that, after all this time. It’s just that you look so much—”
Like a cow, said Tinker Bell, from deep inside Peter’s hair.
“Be quiet,” said Peter.
“What?” said Wendy.
“Ignore her,” said Peter, pointing toward his hair.
Wendy eyed Peter’s hair doubtfully, seeing nothing. “All right,” she said. “But…how did you find me?”
“The porpoises,” said Peter. “They sent word to the island that there was a girl sent by Ammm. Ammm’s a porpoise.”
“I know,” said Wendy.
“They said the girl was in trouble,” continued Peter. “So I flew out here. Since they said ‘girl,’I figured it probably wasn’t Mol—your mother. But I thought maybe …” He stopped, clearly embarrassed.
“Anyway,” he went on, “the Mollusks will be here soon with a canoe. They’ll have you on the island in a couple of hours. Meanwhile I brought you this.” From inside his shirt he pulled out a coconut, with a hole plugged by a piece of wood. He unplugged it and handed it to Wendy.
“Water,” he said.
Without a word she grabbed the coconut and gulped until there wasn’t a drop left. The water was warm, but she had never tasted better.
“Thank you,” she said, finally. “And thank you for rescuing me.”
“It’s nothing,” said Peter, blushing.
“No,” said Wendy. “It’s not nothing. Mother said you were very brave.”
“Did she?” said Peter. “Molly said that?”
Wake me up when this is over, said Tinker Bell.
“What is that sound?” said Wendy. “Like bells.”
Peter pointed to his head again. “It’s Tinker Bell,” he said. “She likes to sit on my head.”
Wendy peered at Peter’s hair and saw a tiny, exquisitely beautiful face poking out of the curls with a deeply unhappy expression.
“A fairy!” Wendy exclaimed.
Tink emitted a burst of bells that Peter chose not to translate literally.
“She prefers the term ‘birdwoman,’” he said.
“I see,” said Wendy. “She’s quite lovely.”
Yes, I am, agreed Tink. And you are a cow.
“She says thank you,” said Peter. “But you were saying about Molly …”
Wendy’s face grew somber.
“My mother is in trouble,” she said.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Years ago,” said Wendy. “Some very bad men came to your island, I’m told.”
Now Peter’s face was somber, too.
“Yes,” he said.
“Peter, they’re in England.”
“But they can’t be! They were destroyed! I was there when it happened!”
“That’s what everyone thought. But they weren’t destroyed. They’re in England, and they’ve got my mother.”
Peter only stared at her.
“I’ve come to ask you to help me find her,” said Wendy.
“You…you want me to go back to England?”
“Yes.”
“But can’t her father…Can’t the Starcatchers …”
“My grandfather is very ill,” said Wendy. “The Starcatchers have disbanded. He told me to come here and get you, Peter. There’s nobody else.”
“But if I go to England, what would I do?” said Peter.
“I don’t know,” said Wendy.
That’s quite a plan, said Tink.
“And he said something else,” said Wendy.
“What was it?”
“He said ‘confess.’”
“Confess what?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know that, either,” said Wendy.
Does she know anything? said Tink.
“Be quiet, Tink,” said Peter. He stared into the distance for a minute, then another. Finally he said, “I’ll have to think about it.”
“I see,” said Wendy, her voice suddenly cool.
“No,” said Peter, stiffening. “I don’t think you do. I’ve been on this island for more than twenty years. I’ve heard nothing from Mol—from any of you Starcatchers. And now, suddenly, when there’s trouble, you ask me for help.”
“Yes,” said Wendy. “I’m asking you to help your friends.”
“Who I haven’t seen for twenty years,” said Peter.
“I didn’t know there was a limit on friendship,” said Wendy.
Peter didn’t answer that. He stared out at the sea. A minute passed, and then Wendy spoke.
“Please,” she said, softly. “I’ve nowhere else to turn.”
Peter looked at her, then out to sea again. His mind went back to another time at sea, long ago, before he could fly, when he had been hurled into a raging sea. He would have drowned for certain had it not been for a brave girl who leaped from the deck of a ship, risking her own life to save his.
That was Molly, the mother of this girl, who had come all
this way to ask for his help.
He nodded his head once, then again more emphatically.
Oh no, said Tink.
CHAPTER 30
THE CALL
GEORGE DARLING IMPATIENTLY PACED the hallway outside the door to Chief Superintendent Blake’s office in Scotland Yard. George was not accustomed to being kept waiting.
The call from Uncle Neville about Wendy had turned George’s already troubled world completely upside down. First his wife had disappeared, now his daughter. In a flying machine. George was furious at himself for entrusting his children to his batty relative Neville, with his lunatic inventions.
George’s first act had been to order Neville to bring John and Michael back to London, immediately. His second act had been to contact the Cambridgeshire police to have them organize a search for Wendy. They had been scouring the countryside, so far without success. George was pressing them hard to widen the search. He wanted desperately to go organize it himself, but felt he had to remain in London, to keep pressure on Scotland Yard to find his wife. That was what had led him to request—actually, demand—an appointment this morning with Blake.
And so he paced, exhausted, sick with guilt and worry, nagged incessantly by questions about both his wife and daughter. Where had the flying machine come down? Why hadn’t anyone …
“He will see you now, Mr. Darling,” Blake’s secretary announced.
“About time,” muttered George. He squared his shoulders and marched into Blake’s office. The secretary closed the door behind him.
“Mr. Darling,” said Blake, rising from his desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of—”
“Spare me the pleasantries,” said George. “I haven’t the stomach for it today.”
Blake sat back down.
“Of course, I understand,” he said, with a calmness that George found very irritating. “I heard about your daughter. Terrible thing. A girl on a flying contraption …”
He stopped there, but George saw the rest of the thought in Blake’s eyes—contempt for a father who would let his daughter get into such a predicament.
“Terrible thing,” Blake repeated. “If there’s anything we can do here at the Yard …”
“I am working with the Cambridgeshire authorities,” said George. “And I am confident they will find my daughter. What I wish to know is what progress you have made in locating my wife.”
“As my men have told you a number of times, Mr. Darling, we are doing—”
“I know what they’ve told me, Chief Superintendent. They’ve told me they’re doing everything they can. But I fail to understand how, with all the resources of Scotland Yard, they have produced nothing. Nothing. My wife was…my wife is a respectable woman, from a good family. She is not a beggar; she is not a criminal. Such people don’t simply disappear.”
“Oh, but they do,” said Blake, again with that irritat-ingly calm voice. “People disappear all the time.”
“So you’re saying there’s nothing more you can do.”
“What I am saying,” said Blake, “is that everything that can be done is being done.”
George felt as though his head was going to explode. He had gotten virtually no sleep since his wife had gone missing. Now his daughter was missing as well. And this smug, pompous man, sitting behind a desk …
George realized that he had moved close to that desk. He was now leaning over Blake, unable to stop himself from blurting out what he was thinking—what he had been thinking for days now.
“Perhaps you don’t want to find her,” he said.
Blake stiffened. “What did you say?”
George leaned closer. “Before my wife went missing, she came to see you,” he said.
“Did she?” said Blake. “I meet so many—”
“She came to see you,” interrupted George, “to discuss certain concerns she had about one of your men, James Smith. And about the Palace.”
Blake’s eyes narrowed.
“My wife told me that after she left that meeting with you,” continued George, “she was almost grabbed by a police officer in the Underground. Two days later she disappeared.”
“What are you suggesting?” said Blake quietly.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said George. “I’m telling you this, Chief Superintendent. I want my wife found. And I no longer believe your department is trying to find her.”
“That’s a serious accusation, Mr. Darling.”
“Yes it is,” said George. “And I intend to make sure it is investigated. I have friends in the government, Chief Superintendent. Powerful friends. I will bring this matter to their attention.”
“Do you really think that’s wise?” said Blake, his voice still calm. “Making accusations? A man in your position? A man with a career?” He paused, then added, softly, “A man whose wife could be…vulnerable?”
George recoiled. “Is that a threat?’ he said.
“No,” said Blake. “It’s merely a description of your situation. I shouldn’t think you’d want to make it any worse.”
For a moment the two men stared at each other. George started to say something, then decided against it. He spun on his heel, went to the door, yanked it open violently, and stalked out.
When he was gone, Blake stared at the empty doorway for a moment, drumming his fingers on his desk. Then he picked up the telephone and made a call.
CHAPTER 31
THE PLAN
MOLLUSK ISLAND WAS THE most beautiful place Wendy had ever seen.
When she first caught sight of it, from the Mollusk canoe, it was a dark speck on the horizon. But as the canoe drew closer, escorted by porpoises and propelled swiftly through the sea by eight strong warriors, the speck turned into a spectacular sight—a rugged volcanic mountain rising steeply from the blue water, the dark green of its jungled slopes occasionally broken by the white foam of a cascading waterfall.
The mountain’s volcanic peak rose steeply overhead as the canoe passed through a series of reefs and into the calm water of a lagoon, embraced by a long, curved white-sand beach fringed with palm trees. A group of people stood on the beach, apparently waiting for the canoe, but they were too far away for Wendy to identify them. Closer at hand, near the middle of the lagoon, was a small, rocky island; Wendy saw some figures lounging on a big flat boulder by the water’s edge. As the canoe drew closer, she saw that they were beautiful young women. Several of them waved at the canoe, and Wendy, hesitantly waved back. Then, with a chorus of giggles, the beautiful young women slid from the rock and dove into the water, flashing their long graceful …
Tails?
Wendy gasped as the mermaids disappeared below the lagoon surface. One of the Mollusk warriors said something to the others in their odd-sounding grunt-and-click language; all eight warriors chuckled.
This is definitely not England, thought Wendy.
The canoe was fast approaching the beach. Wendy was relieved to see that Peter was one of the people standing there. After making sure she was safely aboard the canoe, he’d flown back to the island, saying he needed to speak to somebody. Wendy thought he’d said the person’s name was Fighting Prawn, but that seemed unlikely.
The canoe reached shallow water and glided onto the sand. Wendy turned and waved her thanks to the porpoises, who headed back toward the open sea. Then Wendy climbed out of the canoe and stepped onto the sand. She staggered, her legs wobbly, her body weak from her harrowing ordeal. Peter ran to her, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling. As he helped her up the beach, Wendy heard bell sounds coming from his hair. They sounded displeased.
Waiting for her with open curiosity was a group of about two dozen Mollusks. Standing slightly apart from the others was a tall, powerfully built man with deep-bronze skin, jet-black hair, and piercing dark eyes. Wendy had no doubt, as Peter led her to him, that he was the leader. When they reached him, Peter said, “Fighting Prawn, this is Wendy Aster.”
“Darling,” said Wendy.
“What
did you say?” said Peter.
“My last name is Darling,” said Wendy.
Peter frowned. “Darling?” he said. “But wasn’t that…I mean, isn’t that George’s name?”
“Yes,” said Wendy. “George Darling is my father.”
“George is your father,” said Peter softly.
“Yes,” said Wendy.
“So George…married Molly.”
“Why, yes,” said Wendy.
“Oh,” said Peter. He reddened and looked down.
“Is there something wrong?” said Wendy.
“No,” said Peter, recovering. “Anyway, Fighting Prawn, this is Wendy Darling.”
Wendy didn’t like the way he said her name, but decided to ignore it.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said to Fighting Prawn.
Fighting Prawn studied her face for a moment before speaking.
“Peter was right,” he said. “You look remarkably like your mother. You must also have her courage, to have come all this way alone.”
“I had help,” said Wendy. “From the porpoises. And of course, Peter. But now I need to …”
Wendy’s voice turned to a moan as she staggered forward, faint from lack of food, water, and sleep. Fighting Prawn caught her and picked her up easily.
“Tell us later,” he said. “First you need to eat and rest.”
Wendy tried to protest, but lacked the strength. Holding her in his arms, Fighting Prawn turned and carried her toward the path to the village. Peter followed, still trying to digest the news that Molly had married George, and wishing this fact did not bother him so much.
Wendy slept the rest of the day, and all night long, in a hut in the Mollusk village. When she awoke, two of Fighting Prawn’s daughters, Shining Pearl and Little Scallop, brought her coconut milk and a wooden platter covered with fruits, berries, and some kind of broiled chunks on skewers. She ate ravenously.
“What is this?” she said, holding up a skewer. “It tastes quite interesting.”
Peter and the Sword of Mercy Page 14
