“The only hundred pounds you have is around your waist,” said Prentiss.
Then Thomas complained, “Besides, there’s no cake on this stupid island.”
Peter glanced at Thomas, whose tone had grown more negative of late. Thomas was also getting taller, as were Prentiss and Tubby Ted; Peter realized that it was just a matter of time before he was the shortest boy in the group.
Tubby Ted sighed again. “Which way to the coconuts?” he said.
“Over there,” said Peter, pointing toward a clump of trees.
As Ted trudged off to collect his breakfast, Peter turned to James.
“I thought we might go see the mermaids today,” he said.
“Again?” said James.
“You don’t want to?” said Peter, surprised by James’s lack of enthusiasm.
James looked down. “You go ahead,” he said.
“Why don’t you want to?” persisted Peter.
“No reason, really,” said James. “I just think they like you better, is all. You’re more…I dunno.”
“You’re more like them,” said Thomas, finishing James’s thought.
“Magical,” said Prentiss.
“I see,” said Peter. “Is there something else you want to do?”
“Besides get off this island?” said Thomas.
Peter studied Thomas for a moment, then the others, and in their faces he saw the discontent that he’d been sensing in them more and more since his return from England.
“If you don’t like it here,” he said to Thomas, “then we can…”
“We can what?” said Thomas, with a defiance he’d never before shown to Peter.
While Peter was trying to think of an answer, Tubby Ted came huffing out of the jungle.
“Look what I found!” he said, waving something in his hand. As he approached, the others saw that it was an arrow, broken in the middle, the two halves hanging together by a sliver of wood.
“It’s an arrow. So what?” said Thomas. “The Mollusks shot at something and missed for a change.”
“Let me see that,” said Peter, taking the arrow from Ted. As he did, Tink made a warning sound.
“I’ll be careful,” Peter said. He examined it for a moment, frowning.
“This isn’t a Mollusk arrow,” he said. “Look at the colors on it. Red as blood. The Mollusks don’t do that. And they make the arrowheads from shells. This one is stone.”
There was something smeared on the tip of the arrowhead—a dark brown substance. Peter sniffed it, then pulled his head quickly away, surprised by the vile and powerful odor.
“If it’s not the Mollusks’,” said James, “then whose is it?”
“I dunno,” Peter said thoughtfully. “But I think we should take it to Fighting Prawn.”
The others nodded, their sleepiness and boredom suddenly gone. Peter rose from the ground, about to zoom skyward and fly to the Mollusk village. But then, seeing the look of disappointment on James’s face, he dropped quickly back to the ground and began trotting toward the path.
“Come on,” he called over his shoulder—unnecessarily, as the others were already running behind, even the normally slow-moving Tubby Ted.
In a few minutes, they reached the Mollusk village. The Mollusks were gathered around their cooking fires, eating their morning meal; a few waved at the boys, who visited often. Peter hurried to the center of the village, where the largest group was gathered around the largest fire ring. Peter ran straight to Fighting Prawn, the Mollusk chief—a white-haired man with piercing dark eyes, older than the others, but still tall and powerfully built.
Fighting Prawn’s face brightened at the sight of the boys. He was especially fond of Peter, who had once saved his life. But his smile instantly disappeared when he saw the arrow in Peter’s hand.
“Where did you find that?” he said, in the impeccable English he had learned in his years as a slave aboard a British ship.
“Tubby Ted found it,” said Peter. He handed the broken arrow to Fighting Prawn, who took it, studied it for a moment, and then sniffed the brown substance on the tip.
“Found it where?” said Fighting Prawn. “Washed up on the beach?”
“No,” said Ted. “In the jungle, right by our hideout.”
The group fell silent. As Fighting Prawn stared at the arrow, an expression flickered across his face that Peter had never seen there before—fear.
“What is it?” asked Peter.
Instead of answering, Fighting Prawn raised his voice and shouted something in the Mollusk language, a mixture of grunts and clicks sounding quite odd to the English-speaker’s ear. Immediately, the Mollusk tribe’s warriors came running from all corners of the village to gather around their chief.
Fighting Prawn addressed them for several minutes, and although Peter understood none of it, he saw the deep concern on the warriors’ faces. When Fighting Prawn finished, the men ran to their huts, quickly emerging with spears, knives, and bows and arrows. They then hurried from the encampment, save for a half dozen who took up guard positions by the gate.
Fighting Prawn turned to the boys. “You will stay here in the village,” he said. “You are not to leave without my permission, do you understand?”
“Why?” said Peter. “What’s happening?”
“Something I had hoped would never happen,” said Fighting Prawn. “Something I have dreaded for a long time.”
“What is it?” said Peter.
“This arrow,” said Fighting Prawn, holding it up, “belongs to a very dangerous tribe. They are called”—here Fighting Prawn made a hissing sound—“which means Scorpions. This substance on the arrowhead is a deadly poison. The Scorpions are fond of poison.”
“Are they here?” asked Prentiss. “On the island?”
“I don’t know,” said Fighting Prawn. “I have sent men out to search the island; we will know soon enough if they are here. But I suspect they are not. I suspect this arrow was left, carelessly, by a scouting party. If it had been a war party, we would know by now. The Scorpions prefer to strike by surprise with massive force. Now that they’ve found this island, they will be back, I’m certain of that.”
“But now you’ll be ready for them,” said Peter.
Fighting Prawn hesitated, and again Peter saw the flicker of fear.
“We will post lookouts, yes,” Fighting Prawn said. “We will be as ready as we can be. But the Scorpions attack in great force; their war canoes will bring more attackers than we have defenders. They are vicious, brutal fighters. They have taken many islands, Peter. They rarely fail.”
“And what happens to the people on the island?” said Tubby Ted.
Fighting Prawn only shook his head.
“I wish I was back in England,” Thomas said softly.
“Maybe I can do something,” said Peter. “I could fly over their canoes and drop things. Fire, maybe. Or at least I could fly out to sea and watch for them, and…”
“No,” said Fighting Prawn. “You will stay here with the others. The Scorpions are expert marksmen. The slightest touch from this”—he held up the arrow again—“and you would fall from the sky like a stone. You must promise me you will not go out there.”
Reluctantly, Peter nodded.
“Good,” said Fighting Prawn. He put his hand on Peter’s shoulder and gave it a fatherly squeeze. “You have great courage, Peter,” he said. “I will need your help before this is over.”
Then he turned and walked toward the gate, somehow looking much older than he had fifteen minutes before.
Peter looked at the other boys and they at him.
“I wish I was back in England,” said Thomas again.
CHAPTER 5
MOLLY’S PLAN
QUIETLY CLOSING HER BEDROOM DOOR, Molly tiptoed down the stairs past her mother’s room to the ground floor. Putting on her coat, she walked quietly to the front door—only to hear a familiar voice boom out behind her.
“And where do you think YOU’RE go
ing, young lady?”
Molly turned to face the formidable shape of her governess, Mrs. Bumbrake, who, on hearing Molly’s footsteps, had huffed into the hallway.
“Just out for a walk,” said Molly.
“A walk to WHERE?”
“I thought I’d visit the Darlings,” answered Molly.
The stern expression on Mrs. Bumbrake’s face instantly changed to one of approval.
“Going to see young George, then?” she said.
Molly blushed. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll be back before dark, I promise.”
“See that you are,” said Mrs. Bumbrake, trying to sound harsh, but unable to hide her pleasure. George Darling was exactly the sort of well-bred young man she thought Molly should be seeing. Not like that other boy, Peter, who (in Mrs. Bumbrake’s view) had gotten Molly into such trouble aboard that awful ship….
“Bye,” said Molly, ducking out the door before Mrs. Bumbrake could say any more. Pulling her coat front tight, she crossed the broad, mansion-lined street in front of her house and entered Kensington Gardens, the massive form of Kensington Palace looming through the fog. She took the path through Hyde Park, then crossed Kensington Road into a street lined with fine homes. Reaching the Darlings’, she climbed the steps, rang the doorbell, and told the servant who answered that she was there to see George.
In thirty seconds he was bounding down the stairs, gangling and awkward, but showing more and more indications of the handsome young man he was becoming.
“Hello, Molly,” he said.
“Hello, George.”
There was an awkward pause, which was not unusual; Molly and George spent a good deal of their time together pausing awkwardly. Finally Molly broke the silence.
“I wondered if we could talk,” she said.
“Of course!” said George. “What about?”
“I meant talk, uh, quietly,” said Molly, glancing toward a servant dusting the mantel in the next room.
“Ah!” said George, feeling idiotic, which made him turn even redder than usual. “Of course. Father’s study is empty. He and Mother are traveling.” He rolled his eyes. “Again.”
They went into the study, and George closed the door.
“Is something wrong?” he said.
“Yes,” said Molly. “At least, I think so.”
“The Starcatchers,” said George.
A few months ago, Molly would never have discussed the Starcatchers with George, or even acknowledged their existence. But George had been with her and Peter that night at Stonehenge; in fact, without him, none of them would have gotten there at all. He had been very brave that night, and though he was not a Starcatcher, Molly trusted him absolutely.
“Yes,” said Molly. “The Starcatchers.”
Quickly she summarized what her father had said about the meeting in Paris and the Starcatchers’ concerns.
When she had finished, George said, “I don’t blame them for being worried—that Ombra thing was quite alarming. But it sounds to me as though, now that they’re aware of the situation, they’re taking steps to deal with it.”
“I don’t know,” said Molly. “Father seemed so worried—more so than I’ve ever seen him. I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“Such as what?”
“I’ve been thinking,” Molly said. “About the starstuff warnings.”
“The ones they’re not getting anymore.”
“Yes,” said Molly. “Father said they appeared as personal notices in the Oxford Observer. For more than a hundred years, he said. That’s a long time, George.”
“It is a long time,” said George, not sure what she was getting at.
“So,” said Molly, “I was thinking that perhaps somebody in Oxford—somebody at the newspaper—might know who placed those notices.”
“Perhaps,” said George.
“So,” said Molly, “I was thinking that perhaps somebody could go up to Oxford and look into that.”
“Somebody?” said George.
“Me, actually,” said Molly.
“Do your parents know about this plan?”
“No,” confessed Molly. “They’d never allow me to go. But they needn’t know, George. It’s only an hour or so by train to Oxford. We could go there and be back in a day.”
“We?” said George.
Molly blushed. “I was hoping that…I mean, you’re the only person outside my family who understands the situation, and I know it’s a huge imposition after all you’ve done, but I…”
George put his hand on Molly’s, stopping her and sending a current through them both.
“Of course I’ll go to Oxford with you,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said.
They self-consciously separated hands.
“I can get away easily, with my parents gone,” George said. “But how will you escape the clutches of the formidable Mrs. Bumbrake?”
Molly smiled. “I shall use you as an excuse. I shall tell her you’re taking me to the National Gallery tomorrow, and that we plan to spend the day there, as there are so many fine paintings to admire.”
“Indeed there are,” said George. “But will the formidable Mrs. B. entrust you to me?”
“She will,” said Molly. “The formidable Mrs. B. is quite fond of you.”
Molly was on the verge of saying something more, but settled instead for another awkward, blushing silence, this one broken by George.
“All right, then,” he said. “Shall I come ’round tomorrow at nine? For our visit to the National Gallery?”
“Nine it is,” said Molly. “Thank you, George.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he said.
He saw her to the door and they said good-bye. As Molly retraced her steps back to her house, she thought warm thoughts about George’s loyalty and his willingness to help.
Then a different thought began to intrude: The last time George helped me, he wound up in great danger. Am I putting him in danger again?
Molly pondered that, and decided she was being silly. What harm can possibly come from a trip to Oxford?
Comforted somewhat by that thought, Molly hurried forward into the swiftly falling night.
CHAPTER 6
RUMOR SPREADS
LE FANTOME CHARGED THROUGH the roiling seas faster than she’d ever sailed before. Captain Nerezza pushed the vessel to her limits, putting up more sails even when it seemed the added cloth might tear the ship apart. Night and day, she surged forward, leaving a wake of bubbling white on the dark, open ocean.
The sailors were as eager as their captain to reach their destination and discharge their unwelcome passenger. Rumor had spread quickly through the crew that he was back—the hooded, shadowy shape living in the darkened cabin. At first, some dismissed the rumor, insisting that Ombra had died at Stonehenge—why, people had seen it.
But the rumor persisted. For one thing, there was the cold: the nearer one got to that dark, forbidden cabin, the colder the air grew, to where a man could see his breath.
Then there was the sound—a raspy, wheezing sound, like some kind of beast in pain. Sometimes late at night it could be heard on deck, moving from one end of the ship to the other, though the men on watch, when they dared to look, saw nothing but shadows.
With each new report of strange occurrences, the ship’s mood grew gloomier. What might have been a cheerful crew—for sailors loved a fast ship—became an ever less happy one. Captain Nerezza’s mood remained foul, with an almost frantic edge, as he stood for hours on deck brooding, always trying to eke another half knot out of a ship already shuddering under the stress of too much sail. The helmsman fought to hold the great wheel, never a song on his lips or a smile on his face. The cook produced uninspired gruel. There was no music to be heard, not a single laugh.
They all felt it—the thing in the dark cabin. Every man felt it. And then one night, as sailors lay in their hammocks trying to find sleep that wouldn’t come, a young boy spoke three words that carried t
hrough the lower decks like a bone-chilling wind. He spoke them just after prayers, when the only sounds were the swishing of water against the hull and the groan of the ship as it buckled and bent under the captain’s demands. Those three words rippled through the hearts of all those aboard, for everyone had been thinking the same thing: “It’s growing stronger.”
CHAPTER 7
THE SECRET
THE SUN BLAZED HOT IN THE BRILLIANT BLUE SKY; the still, humid air hung heavy on Mollusk Island.
Peter and his mates sat in a bored clump in the middle of the Mollusk village. Normally, this was a lively place, where children’s laughter mingled with tribal gossip. But today there was almost no sound other than the muffled roar of waves crashing onto the beach several hundred yards away. Nobody felt like talking; everyone except the youngest children was waiting.
They were waiting for a sound nobody wanted to hear but everyone expected—the sound of a conch-shell horn, blown by one of the sharp-eyed Mollusk warriors posted high on the mountainside. The conch horn would mean that a lookout had sighted war canoes on the horizon.
It would mean the Scorpions were coming.
But for now, there was nothing to do but wait. And waiting was something Peter did very poorly. He glanced at his shadow; it was just the slightest bit longer than the last time he had looked at it. Would this day never end?
Peter looked at the others. Tubby Ted was sleeping, his chin sticky with juice from the coconut he’d been eating before he dozed off. Prentiss and Thomas were playing perhaps their hundredth game of tic-tac-toe, drawing the grid in the dirt with sticks. James sat nearby, trying to catch a bright green jungle fly as it darted around his head.
Peter shifted closer to James, moving carefully so as not to wake Tinker Bell, who was dozing in the bushy red mass of his hair. Keeping his voice low, he said, “The moon is full tonight, isn’t it?”
“I believe so,” said James, swatting unsuccessfully at the fly. “Why?”
“I’ll have a good view of the ocean, that’s why,” said Peter, grinning.
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