Starcatchers 01 - Peter and the Starcatchers

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  That takes care of Slank, he thought. Now all I have to worry about is the big man with the whip.

  He checked around to make sure nobody was watching, then got to his feet, tiptoed aft, and descended some steps to a dimly lit corridor, flanked by four cabin doors. Molly is probably in one of these cabins, he thought, moving silently, until he reached a narrow ladderway leading down. Heart pounding, he descended the ladder, and found himself in darkness. He felt his way along the floor with his feet, toes outstretched. He then stood still for perhaps a minute, waiting as his eyes began to pick up what little light filtered down the ladderway from above. He saw he was in a long, low space. At the end was a doorway, and …

  Peter froze. On the floor by the doorway was a man’s body. It lay slumped against the wall, head lagging sideways, and …

  … and it was snoring. Peter relaxed a little. He peered at the sleeping man’s face, and recognized him as a member of the crew. Next to the man, on the floor, was a lantern, which apparently had gone out. The man’s right hand was loosely curled around a wooden club, about two feet long.

  He’s on watch, Peter thought. He’s guarding the door, and he let the lantern go out, or he put it out, and he fell asleep.

  Peter thought about it some more. If he’s on watch, whatever’s in that room is important. Maybe they keep the good food in there.

  He hesitated, weighing the risk of waking the guard against the hope of finding food. Then his stomach growled, making the decision for him. Peter crept forward, keeping an eye on the sleeping man. He reached the door and put his hand on the knob, worried that the door would be locked, only to find that not only was it unlocked, it was slightly ajar.

  That’s odd.

  Peter gently pushed the door open and stepped inside. Again, he waited for his eyes to adjust, as this room was even darker. He heard a scuttling sound, but it was one he’d become all too familiar with: rats.

  Please don’t bite me, he thought. I’m here for the same reason you are.

  In a few moments he began to make out a bulky shape perhaps five feet in front of him. Holding his hands before him, sliding his feet, he started toward it, and …

  What was that? It was a noise in the corner, something moving.

  It sounds too big to be a rat.

  Peter froze again, peering toward the source of the sound, and he saw something green—no, two green things—glowing, hovering. Peter stared at them and realized …

  Those are eyes. But what has eyes that glow like that?

  Peter was not interested in finding out. He turned and bolted for the doorway and …

  WHUMP!

  Peter bounced off a stout body and fell backward onto the floor. He’d run into the guard, who was now awake, and unhappy.

  “OW!” said the guard, stumbling backward. He caught himself and lumbered forward into the room, shouting, “What do yer think yer OW!”

  The guard, seeing poorly in the dark room, had tripped over Peter’s legs. He stumbled and pitched forward headfirst, falling and striking something behind Peter. Seeing his chance to escape, Peter scrambled to his feet and darted through the doorway, determined to get out of there as quickly as possible, only to stop when he heard the sailor’s astonished “Wha … ?”

  Unable to control his curiosity, Peter risked a backward glance. The guard was on his hands and knees, next to the bulky shape on the floor. Peter, his eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness, recognized it as the canvas-wrapped cargo he’d seen being carried aboard the ship. The guard, his mouth agape, was staring at something above the shape.

  A rat.

  In midair.

  A rat floating in midair.

  Peter blinked his eyes, but there was no question: the rat was suspended in space, as if hanging from a string, but there was no string. As Peter and the guard stared at the rat, it waved its legs slowly, almost languidly, as if swimming, and began to drift toward the doorway, toward Peter.

  Peter knew he should run, but could not move his legs, could not take his eyes off the airborne rodent now coming through the doorway. When it was about two feet away it seemed to notice him and, moving its right feet in a paddling motion, altered its course to the left, so as to just miss Peter’s head. Riveted to the spot, Peter watched it come, swiveling his head as it drew closer, closer, and …

  Peter jumped as a hand gripped his arm.

  “Peter,” a voice whispered.

  Peter jerked his head around and saw: Molly.

  Where did she come from? “Molly,” he said, “what are …”

  “You need to get out of here now,” she said, pulling him away from the doorway.

  Behind him, Peter heard the guard stumbling to his feet.

  “Here, now!” the guard was shouting. “Stop, whoever you are!”

  Peter felt Molly dragging him to the ladder.

  “Come on,” she said, reaching the ladder and swiftly ascending it. Peter followed, his mind swirling now, thinking about the flying rat, remembering the eyes he’d seen glowing in the dark.

  Molly has green eyes. They reached the next deck. Behind and below them, the guard was still yelling for them to stop. Peter started toward the stairway leading up to the main deck, but Molly grabbed his arm, opened a door, pulled him inside, and closed the door behind them. It was a small cabin, but cozy—two bunks, one slung over the other; a tiny bureau. The cabin smelled of lavender and face powder. This was obviously where Molly and Mrs. Bumbrake stayed.

  “Molly,” said Peter, “what …”

  He was silenced as Molly clapped her hand over his mouth. She nodded toward the door. Peter heard the sound of boots clomping down the stairway, then past the cabin door. Big boots.

  The man with the whip, thought Peter. Little Richard.

  Molly silently opened the door just as the top of the huge man’s head disappeared down the ladderway.

  “Go,” said Molly, pushing Peter out the door. “Before Slank gets here.”

  “All right,” said Peter, “but what was …”

  “There’s no time,” said Molly. “Here, take this.” She turned, snatched a brown-paper package from the bureau, and shoved it into his hand. “Now, go.”

  Peter heard more footsteps on the deck. Clutching the package, he raced up the stairway and, keeping low, scooted forward along the ship’s starboard rail. Behind him, he heard more yelling; one of the voices was Slank’s. But Peter’s path was clear, and he reached the forward ladderway unnoticed.

  He darted down it and, with great relief, ducked into the boys’ cramped little space, which, at this moment, seemed almost pleasant.

  James sat up. “Peter,” he said. “You’re back.”

  Peter slumped to the floor, breathing hard, his heart pounding.

  “What happened?” said Prentiss.

  “Are you all right?” said Thomas. “You look scared.”

  “I’m not scared,” said Peter, too quickly.

  “What happened?” repeated Prentiss.

  “Well,” said Peter, not sure how much he should tell, or how much the others would believe, “there was this room, and …”

  “Did you get food?” interrupted Tubby Ted.

  “Well,” said Peter, “I was trying to …”

  “You did!” said Tubby Ted, spying the package and grabbing it from Peter’s hands. “You got food!”

  “But that’s—”

  Peter was interrupted by the boys’ shouts of delight as Tubby Ted ripped open the brown paper and triumphantly held up a loaf of bread.

  “Peter!” said James. “You did it!”

  “Yes,” said Peter, quietly, looking at the bread. “Of course.”

  They managed to pry the loaf out of Tubby Ted’s hands long enough to divide it five ways. Although they could have eaten several more loaves, the worst of their hunger pangs were satisfied, and after they finished the last crumbs, they all quickly drifted off to sleep.

  All, that is, except Peter, who tossed restlessly, reviewing his st
range experience in the aft hold, questions swarming in his brain.

  How could a rat fly? What was going on in that hold? Why were they guarding it? Why was Molly down there? Had those been her eyes he’d seen in the dark? They had to have been! But what kind of person has eyes like that, eyes that glow in the dark? How on earth could a rat fly?

  The more Peter pondered these questions, the more he became convinced that the answers, whatever they were, had something to do with the trunk, the same trunk that had made that sailor act so strange on the day the ship left port. Peter went over it again and again in his mind, trying to remember if he’d seen anything else in the hold; there was nothing, he decided. Only the trunk. That’s what they were guarding.

  I’m going to find out what’s in there.

  CHAPTER 8

  ADRIFT IN A DORY

  PRESTON AND HARBUCKLE, their hands tied to their feet behind their backs, lay on their fat bellies on the bottom of the dory, looking like a pair of pudgy rocking horses. Their situation—bound and gagged, abandoned at sea without food or water—had been bad enough to begin with, but it was getting worse.

  They’d been drifting for a while now, each man struggling in vain to get free of his ropes. And now Preston, exhausted from the effort, could see that the water sloshing around the bottom with him was definitely higher.

  The dory was leaking.

  Figures, Preston thought. Black Stache wouldn’t waste a good boat just to kill us.

  Preston strained to look around. He could see that the dory was riding lower now. As the waves rolled it, water sometimes sloshed over the sides.

  The little boat was going down.

  I’m going to drown, thought Preston. He felt a momentary pang of regret that he had not spent more time with his beloved wife. But it passed when he remembered that the reason he’d gone to sea in the first place was that he had never really liked his beloved wife.

  The water in the dory was definitely higher now. Preston, who was not the world’s foremost thinker, was doing his best to formulate some kind of plan, when he heard Harbuckle, in the front of the dory, say something through his gag.

  “Bmmmgh!” it sounded like.

  Preston craned his neck to see his shipmate, who was looking back at him with a certain urgency in his eyes.

  “Gmmmmph!” Harbuckle said, arching his eyebrows in a meaningful way.

  Preston sensed that Harbuckle was trying to tell him something.

  “Wmmmmbh?” he queried.

  “Gmmmmph!” repeated Harbuckle, adding, “GMMMMPH!”

  Harbuckle rolled sideways, so his back was to Preston. He looked over his shoulder and made a violent, look-down-there nod with his head toward his bound hands, the fingers of which were wiggling.

  “GMMMMMMMMMPH!” he said, sounding very impatient now.

  Ah! thought Preston. He wants me to do something. This seemed to Preston like a sound idea, doing something. But what? Preston made a frowny face at Harbuckle, to indicate, What?

  Looking exasperated, Harbuckle rolled toward Preston, then rolled away again, again nodding violently toward his hands.

  “GMMMMMPPPHH!!” he said, and suddenly Preston understood. He wants me to roll over, so he can untie my hands. What a good idea! He nodded his head violently, to indicate that he understood. Then, with a massive heave, he rolled his bulky body toward Harbuckle’s.

  The good news was, Preston’s roll took him just the right distance; he and Harbuckle were now back to back, their hands just touching.

  The bad news was, by shifting his massive weight forward to join Harbuckle’s, he had overburdened the bow of the dory, and cold seawater was now sloshing into the tiny boat.

  “GMMMMMMMPPPHH!!!!” shouted Harbuckle, and Preston felt his shipmate’s hands clawing frantically at the knots on his own. He tried to hold still, but as the water rose, he had to squirm and struggle to keep his head above it—but the water was coming in fast, and Preston could no longer grab any gasps of air, and so he held his breath as long as he could, until his lungs screamed in agony and he grabbed at his aching chest and …

  Wait a minute. He was grabbing his chest, which meant…

  His hands were free!

  Desperately thrusting himself up, Preston got to his knees, tore the gag from his mouth and gulped sweet sea air. He saw that the dory was now swamped, but he was still alive! He could barely believe it: a moment ago, he’d been at death’s door, but now here he was, still breathing, and he owed it all to …

  Harbuckle!

  Preston plunged his head back underwater and found his shipmate’s body, not moving. Frantic, Preston grabbed Harbuckle by the hair and yanked his head to the surface, where—thank goodness—it made a faint moaning sound. Preston yanked the gag from Harbuckle’s mouth, which began to cough, and then spew seawater, and then, finally, to speak.

  “You idjit!” it said. “You rock-headed, lobster-brained MORON!”

  “I’m sorry, mate!” said Preston. “I forgot you was down there!”

  “You forgot I was down there?” said Harbuckle. “I untie your hands and save your worthless life and YOU FORGOT I WAS DOWN THERE?”

  “Only for a minute,” said Preston.

  “Untie my hands,” said Harbuckle, “so I can wring your neck.”

  Harbuckle calmed down as Preston untied him, and both men began to understand that, although they had escaped immediate death, their long-term prospects were not good. They tried using their hands to bail out the dory, but it was hopeless: for every handful of water they scooped out, the waves brought more in. Eventually they stopped trying, as exhaustion, cold, and despair settled in.

  And then Preston saw it, on the horizon.

  “Look,” he shouted, pointing.

  Harbuckle squinted, and he saw it, too.

  A mast.

  Harbuckle said, “You don’t suppose … ?”

  “They’re coming back for us?”

  “That couldn’t be good,” Harbuckle said.

  “No,” agreed Preston. Perilous as their situation was, it was probably better than whatever Black Stache would have in store.

  “Wait a second,” said Harbuckle, squinting hard. “That ain’t the Sea Devil.”

  Preston took a long look.

  “It ain’t the Wasp, either,” he said.

  The two pirates looked at each other, then both rose up, nearly capsizing the swamped dory, and began waving their arms frantically.

  “Over here!” they shouted. “We’re over here!”

  With agonizing slowness, the distant ship drew closer; the two castaways, their voices growing hoarse, kept shouting and waving, desperate for a sign of recognition. Finally, Preston saw it.

  “Someone’s waving at us!” he shouted, jumping up so violently that the much abused dory finally did capsize, leaving the two pirates swimming, or trying to.

  But there was no question; the ship was steering toward them now, and as it drew close, both men could clearly see the person who’d been waving at them, the person who’d seen them first, and saved their sorry lives.

  “Why,” said Harbuckle, “it’s a boy.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE RESCUE

  PETER LEANED OVER THE PORT RAIL to watch as the two fat, wet men, clinging to knotted ropes, were hauled slowly aboard the Never Land. The seas swelled and shifted, the fat men crying out as they swung like pendulums.

  Peter had seen the drowning men first; he’d pointed them out to a sailor, who’d run to tell Slank. Peter had kept waving as the Never Land drew closer, to let the men know they’d be rescued.

  And now, as they were hauled aboard, Peter was as curious as everyone else to learn who they were, and how they got into their predicament. He joined the crowd forming a circle around the men as they sat on the deck, dripping, panting, looking apprehensively up at their rescuers. Peter noticed Molly on the other side of the circle. Their eyes met for a moment, then Peter looked away.

  Why do I always look away?

/>   “Move aside!” said Slank, shoving his way through the crowd. He stood over the two men and said: “Do you speak English?”

  The fatter of the two (though not by much) nodded, coughed, and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “What’re your names?” asked Slank. “What ship are you from? And how did you end up in the sea?”

  “My name is Harbuckle, sir,” said the fatter one. “This here is Preston. We thank you, sir, for saving our lives. We was surely—”

  Slank interrupted. “I asked you what ship you’re from,” he said. “And how you wound up in the sea.”

  “We’re from … the … ah… the Marcelle,” said Harbuckle.

  The slightly slimmer fat man, Preston, look at his mate, puzzled. “No we’re not,” he said. “We’re from the UNH—” His sentence was cut short by a sharp blow to the side of his head from Harbuckle.

  “Hey!” said Preston, rubbing his head.

  “Don’t pay him no mind,” said Harbuckle to Slank. “He’s confused from swallowing seawater. He knows good and well we’re from the Marcelle.” Harbuckle was glaring at Preston now. “Got that, mate? The Marcelle.”

  “Is that so?” said Slank, quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” said Harbuckle. “It surely is. She went down in a storm, a bad one. We was lucky to get the dory launched, sir, and if you hadn’t come along, we—”

  “I know the Marcelle,” interrupted Slank.

  “You do?” said Harbuckle, looking surprised.

  “I do,” said Slank. “Tell me, did Captain Ferguson go down with the ship?”

  Harbuckle hesitated, then said, “Aye, sir, that he did. He was a courageous man, Captain Ferguson.”

  “Yes,” said Slank. “He was. Now, there’s one more thing I need you to tell me …”

  “What’s that, sir?” said Harbuckle.

  Slank drew his knife, the blade’s honed edge glinting. “What part of you do I feed to the sharks first?”