Peter and the Sword of Mercy

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “Where is she?” Peter whispered.

  This way.

  Tink, a streak of light, shot down a ladderway. Peter was right behind. Tink zoomed along a passageway and stopped in front of a door. Peter yanked it open. Inside it was dark. Somehow, Wendy had slept through the excitement.

  “Wendy, wake up!” Peter said.

  “Peter?” she said, her voice sleepy. “What is it?”

  “We’ve got to get out now!” said Peter, tugging at her arm.

  “Get out?” she said. “Why?”

  Fine, chimed Tink. Let’s leave her here.

  “We’re about to be hit by a ship!” said Peter. “A very large ship.”

  “WHAT?” said Wendy.

  Not very bright, is she? observed Tink.

  “A ship!” said Peter, dragging Wendy into the passage-way. “Hurry! We have to get on deck before—”

  But it was too late.

  What saved the Jolly Roger from being instantly crushed by the massive hull of the Lucy was that at the last possible instant, Hook lost his nerve. With the steamship’s sharp prow only yards away, he suddenly turned and—in a surprisingly high, almost girlish, voice—screamed at the helmsman, “HARD TO STARBOARD! HARD TO STARBOARD!”

  With all his strength, the helmsman spun the wheel right. It was not nearly enough movement to get the Jolly Roger out of the steamship’s path, but it was just enough to turn the smaller ship so that the larger one, instead of hitting head-on, scraped it at an angle.

  But it was a tremendous collision for those aboard the Jolly Roger—a thundering crash, then a horrendous grinding sound, as the Lucy, herself barely affected, pushed the smaller ship violently sideways as if she were a scrap of driftwood, hurling Hook and his men to the deck. The Lucy surged past, raking the length of the Jolly Roger’s port side, ripping away pieces of her deck and hull. The pirates hung on to whatever they could grab to keep from sliding overboard as the Jolly Roger leaned sideways at a sickening angle.

  Belowdecks, Peter and Wendy were hurled sideways, slamming into the passageway wall. Peter’s head hit something, and he fell to the floor, dazed.

  Tink was at his ear instantly.

  Up! Up! she chimed. Out! Out!

  Peter groaned, his head throbbing. He felt blood trickling down his face. He struggled to get to his feet. It was difficult because he felt woozy, and something seemed to be wrong with the floor. He felt Wendy pulling him up.

  “Peter,” she said, “are you all right?”

  “I think so,” he said, staggering sideways. “The floor …”

  “The ship is listing,” said Wendy. “We have to get out of here.”

  As I already told you, noted Tink.

  Holding on to each other, with Tink lighting their way, a wounded Peter and a determined Wendy headed toward the aft ladderway.

  “What’s happened?” said McPherson, struggling to his feet, his voice on the edge of panic.

  “We collided,” said DeWulf. “And we’re taking on water. Hear it?”

  From somewhere near their cell came the sound of rushing water.

  “We’ll drown!” shouted McPherson.

  “Be quiet!” snapped O’Neal. He grabbed the door and shook it, but it still held firm. His eyes scanned the cell, stopping at a corner to his right. Where the walls had once met flush, there was now a gap of about an inch.

  “Come here!” he shouted to the others. They stumbled over, and he positioned them against one of the walls.

  “On three, push like your lives depend on it,” he said, “because they do. One…two…THREE!”

  The four heaved against the wall, and the gap widened by several inches.

  “Again!” said O’Neal. “One…two…THREE!”

  With a crash, the wall gave way. The men stumbled into the passageway.

  “The lifeboat,” said O’Neal. “Nobody stops us.”

  Peter and Wendy climbed onto the deck. The Jolly Roger had righted itself somewhat but was still listing. The steamship’s long hull had just finished passing; its stern loomed high above, bearing the name Lucy.

  Peter looked forward on the deck of the Jolly Roger. Hook, Smee, and the rest of the pirates were regaining their footing, turning to watch the ship that had almost crushed them.

  And then Hook saw Peter.

  For a moment he stood utterly still, staring.

  “You!” he shouted. “You’re dead. I killed you.”

  “He don’t look very dead to me, Cap’n,” said Smee.

  Hook ignored Smee, keeping his glittering black eyes on Peter. Had the boy’s ghost come back to haunt him? But no: he appeared perfectly real. Hook started walking aft.

  “I killed you once, boy,” he said. “And I will kill you again.”

  “Peter,” said Wendy. “Fly away. Now.”

  Yes, said Tink, in a rare moment of agreement. Fly.

  Peter wiped some blood from his eyes, trying to force his woozy brain to think.

  “Peter, he’ll kill you!” said Wendy. “Fly!”

  Hook was only yards away, his razor-sharp hook held high.

  “Wendy,” said Peter. “Hang on.”

  She started to speak, but her words became a scream when Peter reached behind her, grunted, and picked her up.

  “NO!” screamed Wendy.

  NO! chimed Tink.

  “NO!” bellowed Hook.

  Ignoring them all, Peter turned, took two staggering steps, and with a desperate effort leaped with Wendy over the stern rail of the ship, eluding by inches the furious arc of the pirate captain’s lunging hook.

  On the main deck of the Lucy, Samuel Deasy had trotted the entire length of the starboard rail from bow to stern, trying to stay even with the drama below, watching with fascinated horror as the steamship’s hull brushed aside and swept past the sailing ship.

  Incredibly, the smaller ship had not sunk. And now, as it tossed in the wake of the Lucy, Deasy saw an amazing scene unfold. Two children—a boy and a girl—stood on the moonlit aft deck as a tall man charged toward them, shouting, with something—a knife?—glinting in his hand. Just as he was about to reach the children, the boy swept the girl into his arms and, as Deasy gasped, leaped off the stern.

  What happened next was so astonishing that Deasy nearly fell over the rail. The boy and the girl, instead of falling into the sea, began to…rise. Their ascent was wobbly; it seemed to require great effort on the boy’s part. But after a few moments they had gained enough altitude to be level with Deasy. They continued to rise as they flew toward the Lucy, passing a good fifty feet over Deasy’s head, preceded by a strange streak of light, like a tiny shooting star.

  “Hello!” shouted Deasy, this being the only thing he could think of to say.

  The boy and girl did not respond; they swooped toward the bow of the Lucy, passing the tall, red-and-black smoke-belching funnel. Then they were gone, leaving Deasy struggling to comprehend what he had just seen—if he’d seen it at all.

  He heard a shout, and turned to look astern. The sailing ship was rapidly disappearing behind; it would soon be out of sight. But Deasy could see that the tall man was still standing at the stern rail, shouting in the direction of the Lucy. He seemed very, very upset.

  O’Neal, DeWulf, Kelly, and McPherson crept along the starboard rail, unseen and unheard. The pirates were all on the port side of the Jolly Roger, some assessing the damage inflicted by the steamer, some watching Hook, who was still screaming curses at the hated flying boy.

  It took less than a minute for the four men, experienced hands all, to untie the lifeboat and lower it over the side. With O’Neal rowing as quietly as he could, they slipped quickly and silently away from the Jolly Roger, undetected by the pirate crew and their furious captain.

  Samuel Deasy, red-faced and disheveled, stumbled into the elegant main dining room of the Lucy, shouting incoherently. He was quickly surrounded by a curious crowd, which included the steamship’s captain, an experienced, dignified-looking seaman named Alfred
Hart, who’d been dining with invited passengers at his table.

  It took several minutes for Deasy to calm down enough to get his story out. And quite a story it was, starting with an account of the Lucy colliding with a sailing ship. This drew doubtful looks from the crowd, as nobody had felt anything. A few guests went out on deck and returned quickly to report that they saw nothing. Captain Hart declared that such a thing would not happen, especially not on a bright moonlit night.

  But Deasy was adamant: not only had they struck another ship, but that ship had pink sails!

  Now the doubtful looks turned to amusement: clearly this man was drunk. Deasy’s wife and her family, mortified, tried to pull him away, but he yanked himself free and began shouting that two children had leaped off the sailing ship and…flown over the steamship.

  At this absurdity, the crowd roared with laughter. Deasy’s in-laws, furious, were pulling him away as he continued to insist that he had seen these things with his own eyes. He was still shouting as he was dragged out of the dining room.

  The passengers returned to their tables, still laughing. Now they’d have a fine story to tell, about a drunk who claimed he’d seen a pink-sailed ship and flying children.

  Of all the silly tales!

  CHAPTER 36

  A SECOND BOWL

  MOLLY LAY SHIVERING in the grim darkness of her cell, listening to the endless drip-drip-drip of water in the tunnel outside. Aside from being cold, she was weak from hunger and aching from the effort she’d put into using the plank to pry the tunnel support.

  Over the past two days she’d loosened it a good deal. She stopped when she felt that the next hard yank or two would bring down the post and, in turn, the overhead beam. She had set her trap; now she had to be patient, to wait for the opportunity to use it as a means to escape. She prayed it would come soon, before she was too weak to take advantage.

  She heard footsteps in the tunnel. She stood, grunting with the effort, and peered through the bars into the yellowish light cast by the string of electric bulbs. A guard was coming, carrying a bowl. Mealtime: lukewarm brown slop, perhaps some moldy bread. She thought this might be breakfast. Or was it dinner? She’d lost track.

  She prepared to take the bowl. If she didn’t grab it as it came through the slot, the guard allowed it to fall, dumping it into the mud. More than once, compelled by aching hunger, she’d eaten a meal with pebbles and sand crunching between her teeth.

  The tin bowl pushed through. Molly grabbed hold tightly.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to the guard, desperate in her loneliness to engage in conversation with someone, even her captors.

  The guard, as always, ignored her. Talking was not permitted. She watched him leave, and was about to sit and eat her meager meal when she noticed something unusual: the guard turned and went on down the hall. After delivering the food, the guard always went back the way he’d come. But this time he continued along the tunnel to her right. Molly pressed her face against the bars to follow his progress. She caught a glimpse of something in the guard’s hands.

  A second bowl.

  She watched intently as the guard stopped about thirty feet down the hall. He turned toward the wall and pushed the bowl forward. When he pulled his hands back, the bowl was gone. The guard came back along the tunnel, passing Molly’s cell, then disappeared around the corner.

  Molly sat on the floor, chewing the spongy slop and thinking about what she’d seen. Clearly there was another cell. And clearly it was now occupied by a prisoner. Was it one of the workers, being punished? Or someone new to the tunnels? If so, who?

  She didn’t dare shout out; that would only draw the guards.

  She looked around the cell and found a rock. When she was a girl, her father had taught her, among many other specialized skills, Morse code. She’d complained that it was boring, but he had insisted. “You never know when something like that could be useful,” he said.

  Molly closed her eyes and searched her memory, recalling the dots and dashes that represented letters.

  She raised the rock to the cell bars and began tapping.

  h-e-l-l-o…

  CHAPTER 37

  A BIG PUFF

  CHEEKY O’NEAL WORKED THE OARS, keeping the lifeboat steady as it rode a wave onto Mollusk Island. As the wave broke and surged onto the moonlit beach, McPherson, DeWulf, and Kelly jumped out and heaved, skidding the lifeboat up onto the sand. With O’Neal’s help they quickly hauled the boat into the jungle and covered it with palm fronds. DeWulf returned to the beach and swept the sand smooth, eliminating any trace of their arrival.

  They were thirsty, hungry, and tired, but O’Neal would not let them rest. He grabbed some low-hanging bananas from a tree at the edge of the jungle and tossed a few to each man.

  “We’ll eat on the move,” he said.

  He plunged straight into the thick, nearly pitch-black jungle, hoping to run across a path. The going was difficult; they had to fight for each step through the dense tangle of branches, leaves, and vines. Finally, after an exhausting hour, they reached a moonlit footpath. DeWulf sprawled on the ground, panting.

  “Get up,” growled O’Neal.

  “I need a rest,” said DeWulf.

  “There’s no time,” said O’Neal.

  “Why not?” McPherson said defiantly, as he and Kelly dropped to the path next to DeWulf. O’Neal glared down at the three mutinous men.

  “I’ll tell you why not,” he growled. “The ship was expecting the signal yesterday at sunset, and we weren’t here to give it. They’ll think we’re captured or dead. Maybe they’ll turn transom and leave us here. Or maybe they’ll come looking for the starstuff themselves. Either way, it’s trouble. If they leave, we’re stuck here, and sooner or later the natives will find us, and this time they’ll kill us for sure. Or if the ship sends men for the starstuff, not knowing the island, they’ll be spotted, and there will be a fight. And I for one would not want to fight these natives on their island.”

  O’Neal stepped forward, leaning over the three.

  “So those are the choices,” he said. “We keep moving and send the signal. Or we die.”

  Grumbling, the three men rose to their feet.

  “How do we know they’ll see the signal?” said Kelly.

  “We make sure it’s a big one,” said O’Neal.

  “A big puff,” said Kelly.

  “A very big puff,” said O’Neal.

  CHAPTER 38

  GOOD NEWS AND BAD

  AT DAWN, A STEWARD ABOARD the Lucy found Peter and Wendy dozing fitfully on deck chairs. Although they were both tired from their ordeal on the pirate ship, and, in Peter’s case, from flying them across to the steamer, the chilly sea air had prevented them from getting much sleep.

  Peter had nearly overshot the ship, and had been forced to descend too fast. They’d landed clumsily, pitching forward and sprawling onto the deck. Tink had found this highly amusing; Peter and Wendy had not. After determining that neither of them had been badly hurt, they’d decided to simply stay where they were and wait to be discovered.

  When the steward approached, Peter quickly tucked a complaining Tinker Bell into his shirt. He and Wendy made no effort to run away as there was nowhere to go. The steward, realizing that the two disheveled children were not paying passengers, took them to Captain Hart’s cabin. The captain was unhappy to be awakened so early, and much more unhappy to learn he had two stowaways aboard. When he saw Peter and Wendy, he frowned, suddenly remembering the drunken passenger who’d claimed to see a pink-sailed ship, and two children flying over the Lucy.

  Could it possibly be?

  He shook his head. Nonsense. The passenger had been seeing things; children did not fly. But then how had these two gotten aboard, and where had they been hiding?

  For the next half-hour, an increasingly frustrated Captain Hart tried to get information from Peter and Wendy—any information. But they told him nothing, not even their names, having agreed to reveal as little
as possible for fear word of their mission would somehow reach the Others.

  Finally, Captain Hart gave up. He summoned two large crewmen and ordered that the children be locked up in the brig.

  “You’ll stay there until we get to London,” he said. “After that, the police can deal with the both of you.”

  Peter and Wendy exchanged looks. The captain had given them good news and bad. The ship would take them to London; that was a lucky break, indeed. But they could not allow themselves to fall into the hands of the police.

  As the crewmen herded them belowdecks, Wendy leaned closer to Peter and whispered, “We can’t trust the police. …”

  “I know,” whispered Peter, glancing at the crewmen. “We’ll have to escape.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Peter.

  Wendy looked doubtful. Peter didn’t blame her. From inside his shirt came the soft sound of muffled bells.

  You can just fly away, you know, said Tink.

  “What did she say?” whispered Wendy.

  “She said we’ll think of something,” answered Peter.

  CHAPTER 39

  THE SIGNAL

  “HURRY!” BELLOWED CHEEKY O’NEAL. “We’re running out of time!”

  He and his men had spent the past few hours dragging jungle vegetation up to a lava pool near the top of the massive volcano that formed the center of Mollusk Island. Above them was the rim of the volcano’s crater, a smoldering cauldron nearly a quarter-mile across. This morning the crater was belching steam. O’Neal hadn’t seen it do that before. It gave him an uneasy feeling.

  Below them was the jungle. It was shrouded in the dense morning fog that covered most of the island. But dawn had started to redden the horizon. In minutes the sun’s glare would fill the sky; it would quickly burn off the fog.