Peter and the Sword of Mercy

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  O’Neal needed to send the signal soon, because when the fog cleared, the Mollusks would see the smoke from their village far below. O’Neal looked out at the vast dark sea, praying that the ship was still close enough to spot the signal when the sun came up. This was the only hope that he and the other three had of completing their mission and getting off this island alive.

  McPherson, DeWulf, and Kelly, exhausted from climbing and working all night, were now throwing vegetation into the lava pool to create the signal. Their efforts did not satisfy O’Neal.

  “Faster!” he shouted. He stomped over to the vegetation pile, grabbed a bunch of palm fronds in his huge hands and threw them into the lava pool. A thick cloud of smoke billowed upward.

  “I want to see more smoke like that,” O’Neal said, “or I’ll throw you into that hole.”

  McPherson, Kelly, and DeWulf, tired as they were, jumped to it. They had seen O’Neal do some scary things when he got mad. One time he’d pulled out most of a man’s hair by the roots. He’d reached into another man’s mouth and yanked out a gold tooth. They figured he was perfectly capable of using their bodies as fuel for smoke signals.

  The three heaved palm fronds and chunks of jungle wood onto the pool. Soon a thick column of smoke rose into the sky, now turning a bright blue. O’Neal grabbed a cluster of huge palm fronds and waved them through the column, interrupting it. He stopped, then waved the fronds again, repeating this process over and over. The result was a broken line of smoke rising ever higher, like dark thread stitched in blue fabric.

  Suddenly the ground shuddered. O’Neal staggered and almost fell into the lava. The main crater blew a huge blast of steam. The men looked up and saw molten rock coursing down the hill like honey down the side of a jar, a thick finger of death pointing right at them.

  “Run for it!” said McPherson.

  “NO!” shouted O’Neal. He needed the signal a little longer and higher, high enough to clear the top of the mountain, long enough to be seen from any side of the island, for he had no idea where the ship was.

  For a second, the other three looked as if they might run. But the fire in O’Neal’s eyes was hotter than anything the lava could produce. The three men frantically threw the rest of the jungle plants into the lava as O’Neal used the big fronds to break the smoke into dashes. Up, up it rose.

  “All right,” O’Neal shouted. “Go!”

  The four men started down the slope, into the jungle, half-running, half-sliding down a steep ravine. But the thick jungle slowed them down, and the lava was gaining. They felt its heat behind them.

  “We’ll never outrun it!” Kelly shouted.

  O’Neal glanced back and saw McPherson was right; the glowing wall of lava was gaining on them, igniting the jungle as it went, causing trees to explode in flames. O’Neal looked around frantically. A few yards below he spotted a thick moss-covered log, the remains of what had once been a huge jungle tree. He stumbled down to it, and, using his massive strength, spun it so it was pointing down the steep ravine.

  “Come on!” he shouted to the other three. They stared at him, not understanding.

  “GET ON THE LOG, you imbeciles!”

  McPherson, Kelly, and DeWulf clambered onto the log, their legs straddling it. The hissing, roaring wall of lava was right behind them.

  “Hold on!” shouted O’Neal. He put his shoulder to the back of the log and lunged forward with all his strength. The log started sliding down the ravine, quickly picking up speed. As it shot ahead, O’Neal managed to dive forward and wrap his arms around the trunk, hanging on for his life; in front of him, Kelly, McPherson, and DeWulf were doing the same. The men screamed as the big log bucked and bounced, crashing through the thick jungle vegetation like a runaway buffalo. After a steep, terrifying, thirty-second drop, the men felt a violent jolt as the log hit a rock, flipping up on its end and catapulting them forward. They landed, sprawling, in a clearing—somehow still alive, somehow not badly hurt. From above them they could hear the lava still coming, but they had enough of a head start now to outrun it.

  O’Neal looked up at the sky, now bright blue. The volcano had sent up a billowing cloud of ash and smoke. But above that, still clearly visible, was the dashed line of smoke he and his men had created. It was a clear signal, visible from long way off.

  O’Neal smiled. He was sure of it now: the ship would come.

  CHAPTER 40

  THE PLAN

  THE LUCY STEAMED IN TO THE Royal Victoria Dock in East London. From their side-by-side windowless cells deep belowdecks, Wendy and Peter couldn’t see anything, but they could hear the blasts of the ship’s horn and feel the shudder of the docking maneuvers. Tink, far too tiny to be imprisoned by the cell bars, had already left the brig and was elsewhere in the ship, carrying out her particular mission. Peter and Wendy sat fidgeting on their hard bunks, too nervous to rest, waiting for someone to come fetch them so they could put their plan into action. They’d had plenty of time to discuss it; the question now was whether it would work.

  Finally they heard heavy footsteps in the corridor, then saw the two crewmen sent down to escort them out—the same two burly men who had brought them to the brig. The men opened the cells and herded Peter and Wendy up through the ship, one in front and one behind. Peter and Wendy were relieved to note that the men didn’t bother to tie or shackle them; evidently they didn’t expect any trouble from children.

  When they reached the main deck, Peter saw that night was falling over London. That was good; darkness would help with his plan. Both the deck and the dock were bustling with debarking passengers and porters pushing carts piled high with luggage. Most of the ship’s traffic flowed down a long gangway from the deck to the dock, where Peter and Wendy spotted their welcoming committee: two London bobbies.

  As they reached the top of the gangway, Peter and Wendy exchanged looks.

  Ready? his eyes asked.

  Ready, hers answered.

  “Don’t be getting any ideas, you two,” growled one of the crewmen. He gripped Peter’s arm in his meaty hand; the other man gripped Wendy as well. The four of them joined the throng of passengers heading off the ship. The crowd moved slowly; that was good. Still, by the time they were a third of the way down, Peter was worried.

  Where’s Tink?

  Halfway down, Peter paused to look down at the cold, dirty water of the Thames, in the narrow space between the dock and the ship.

  “Keep moving!” barked the crewman holding Peter, jerking him forward. Wendy shot Peter a look: Where is she!

  Peter shrugged: I don’t know.

  They trudged forward several more steps. By the dock lights they could see the faces of the waiting bobbies, looking up at them. A worrisome thought knotted Peter’s stomach: Tink had failed.

  Then he heard screams. They started at the top of the gangway and quickly spread downward. People lunged this way and that, trying to escape something, but on the crowded gangway, suspended over the water, there was nowhere to escape.

  “Get ready,” Peter whispered to Wendy. The panic spread quickly. They were shoved forward by the mob behind them. The men holding Peter and Wendy tightened their grips. Wendy bit down on her lip to keep from crying out in pain. The crowd surged, nearly knocking them over. The only thing keeping them up was the dense mass of people in front of them. The screams intensified. Then Peter saw the cause of the panic: first one, then a dozen gray shapes slithered down the gangway between the passengers’ jumping feet.

  Rats.

  A blur of light appeared and, moving almost too fast to see, circled the crewman holding Peter, then the one holding Wendy. The rats converged into a river of gray, matted fur. Before the two crewmen had any idea what was happening, a dozen rats scurried up their pants. The crewmen screamed and let go of their captives, jumping up and down in a frenzy and swatting at the animals clawing at their legs. Peter and Wendy were now free of their captors, but imprisoned ahead and behind by the dense mob of panicked passengers.


  Now came the tricky part of the plan.

  “Trust me,” Peter shouted to Wendy. Putting a hand on the gangway railing, he vaulted over, disappearing as he fell.

  “MAN OVERBOARD!” shouted somebody from the main deck. More screams arose as passengers leaned over the railing, peering into the darkness below. Wendy took a deep breath and slung her left leg over the railing. She was lifting her right leg over when her crewman guard, still swatting at the rats in his pants, saw her, bellowed in rage, and reached for her. He caught her foot and pulled hard, trying to return her to the gangway. She drew back and kicked out with all her strength. Suddenly her shoe came off in his hand and she fell backward over the railing, her cry joining those of the gangway throng. She felt herself tumbling through darkness, then slammed into something

  “OOF!” exclaimed Peter. He’d caught her five feet above the water, and was able to slow her fall, but not stop it. The two of them plunged into the ice-cold Thames. After a few awful, disorienting seconds in the icy, pitch-blackness underwater, they came up gasping and sputtering. From above came a chorus of shouts and screams, and the sound of feet pounding on the dock.

  “Hang on!” said Peter, positioning Wendy behind him and gathering her arms around his shoulders. With a grunt, he lunged upward, slowing lifting her clear of the river, water cascading off them both. The effort weakened him, making him dizzy; he knew he could not fly her far.

  This way! This way!

  Peter saw Tink hovering to his left, leading him toward the massive looming stern of the Lucy. He flew after her, wobbling from side to side, unable to gain altitude, his toes brushing the water. The shouts receded behind them. They cleared the stern of the ship and flew another hundred yards along a stretch of empty dock before Peter, his strength gone, veered to the right and splashed back into the water next to a piling. It was covered with slime and barnacles, but he wrapped both arms gratefully around it and clung to it, sucking air into his burning lungs.

  “Are you all right?” said Wendy, holding on to his back.

  “I’ve been better,” said Peter. “You?”

  “Likewise,” said Wendy.

  The sound of chimes came from a few feet away.

  Are you going to stay in the water all night, or are you going to climb up this ladder?

  “Tink says there’s a ladder over there,” said Peter.

  Wendy let go and swam to the ladder. Peter, too tired to fly, followed. A minute later they were on the dock, dripping wet and shivering cold.

  “Well,” said Peter. “Here we are.”

  “Yes,” said Wendy.

  You’re welcome, said Tink.

  “Thank you, Tink,” said Peter.

  “Yes, Tink,” said Wendy. “Thank you.”

  You fly like a dead pelican, said Tink.

  “She says, you’re welcome,” said Peter.

  “How did she get them to do that?” said Wendy.

  “Get who to do what?” said Peter.

  “Get the rats to crawl up the men’s trousers.”

  “She told them the men had cheese in their pockets,” said Peter.

  “She can talk to rats?” said Wendy.

  “Oh, yes,” said Peter. “Not just rats.”

  They’re smarter than you, said Tink.

  “What did she say?” said Wendy.

  “She said we’d better get going before we freeze to death.”

  They started trudging toward the lights of London, clothes dripping, Wendy walking on one bare foot.

  “Where exactly are we going?” said Peter.

  “To my house,” said Wendy.

  “Is it far?” said Peter.

  “I don’t know,” said Wendy. Wonderful, said Tink.

  “What will we do when we get to your house?” said Peter.

  “I’m…I don’t know that either,” said Wendy. “But I’m sure we’ll figure it out when we get there.”

  “I see,” said Peter.

  They trudged a few more steps.

  Definitely not as smart as the rats, said Tink.

  CHAPTER 41

  AN ODD REPORT

  EXCUSE ME, SIR.” The secretary stood nervously in the doorway to Chief Superintendent Blake’s Scotland Yard office.

  “What is it?” snapped Blake. He was signing the last of the day’s correspondence and planned to be on his way to dinner in five minutes. He did not appreciate anything interfering with his dinner.

  “It’s Superintendent Shroder, sir,” said the secretary. “He says it’s of the utmost importance.”

  “It had better be,” said Blake. “Send him in.”

  The secretary scurried away and a stocky, sweating man entered, holding a piece of paper.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said. “But a matter has come up which I believe is of the utmost—”

  “Yes, the utmost importance,” said Blake, drumming his fingers on his desk. “What is it?”

  “Sir, you may recall that you gave special orders that you wanted to be advised immediately if any officer reported any…unusual activity involving children meeting certain descriptions.”

  Blake’s fingers stopped drumming. “Go on,” he said.

  “Well,” said Shroder holding out the piece of paper, “a short while ago, two officers turned in an odd report from Royal Victoria Dock. I would go so far as to say it is quite unbelievable, sir. However, since the children involved are …”

  “Let me see it,” said Blake, snatching the report from Shroder’s hands. He read it quickly, rubbed a hand through his hair, and read it again. Then he handed it back to Shroder.

  “You are to take this report to Buckingham Palace immediately,” he said.

  “The palace?” said Shroder. “But…”

  “Immediately,” snapped Blake. “You are to hand it personally to Baron von Schatten’s assistant, Simon Revile, and no one else. You will then await his instructions. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go!”

  Shroder scurried out the door.

  Blake sat still for a few seconds, then pounded his fist on his desk, thinking about the dinner he would not be eating anytime soon.

  CHAPTER 42

  SOMEPLACE SAFE

  “I THINK WE’RE GETTING NEAR MY HOUSE,” said Wendy.

  “You think.” said Peter, a bit testily, through chattering teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” said Wendy, also a bit testily. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  It’s not very good, said Tink, from inside Peter’s shirt.

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Peter.

  “What?” said Wendy.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” said Peter.

  “I should hope not,” said Wendy.

  I WAS talking to her, said Tink.

  After a few more steps, Wendy said, “Listen, if you don’t like walking with me, you can fly.”

  Excellent idea! said Tink.

  But Peter shook his head. He didn’t like walking, but he couldn’t leave Wendy alone. The truth was, he wasn’t enthusiastic about being on his own in London at night. He’d had more than his share of bad experiences in this vast, confusing city.

  They slogged on in silence. Their physical condition was as miserable as their mood. They’d been walking for hours—Peter in short pants and sleeves, Wendy on one bare foot—through the fog and chill of the London night, made all the chillier by the fact that they were soaking wet. They’d taken a zigzag route through a maze of dark streets, avoiding people as much as possible, and hiding whenever they saw, or thought they saw, a bobby. They were hungry, tired, and cold. And, at the moment, lost.

  They rounded a corner; ahead was a busy, well-lit street. As they drew closer, Wendy said, “I think that’s Old Brompton Road!”

  “Is that good?” said Peter.

  “Yes,” said Wendy. “We’re near my house.”

  It’s about time, said Tink.

  They reached Old Brompton Road and turned left. In a few blocks they t
urned left again, and walked halfway down a residential street. Wendy stopped and said, “I don’t understand.”

  “What?” said Peter.

  “This is my house. But there are no lights.”

  “It’s late. Maybe George…I mean, maybe your father is asleep.”

  “Even if he were, there would be lights front and back.”

  Wendy climbed the front steps, tried the doorknob, then rang the bell several times. No answer.

  “Where could he be?” said Wendy, her voice quavering. She’d been counting on seeing her father again, being held in his strong arms, letting him take the burden of making decisions. And now …

  She put her face in her hands.

  Now she’s going to cry, said Tink, not sympathetically, but accurately. Wendy stifled a sob; a tear, then another, leaked through her fingers and spattered on the porch. Peter wanted to put his arm around her, but couldn’t quite get up the nerve, so he patted her twice on the back and said, “There, there.” It felt like a stupid thing to say, but it was all he could think of at the moment.

  After an awkward moment, Wendy raised her head and sniffed, regaining her composure. “All right,” she said. “We’ll go to Grandfather’s house.”

  MORE walking? chimed Tink.

  “Is it far?” asked Peter.

  “Less than a mile, I should think,” said Wendy.

  If only you COULD think, said Tink.

  “What did she say?” said Wendy.

  “She said let’s go, it’s cold,” said Peter.

  They trudged back up the street and continued north, crossing Kensington Road and entering Hyde Park. Wendy led the way, sticking to a footpath. There were few lampposts here; most of the time they could see only a few feet in the fog.

  We were here, said Tink. Bad men chased us.

  “I remember,” said Peter.

  “Remember what?” said Wendy.

  “Tink and I were in this park,” said Peter. “With Mol—your mother. I flew her out of Lord Aster’s house when Ombra was after her.”