Starcatchers 01 - Peter and the Starcatchers

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

“And you’re coming with me, young lady,” said Mrs. Bumbrake, towing Molly toward the ladderway.

  As Molly was pulled away, she caught Peter’s eye, and pointed downward. Her meaning was clear: Meet me below.

  Peter nodded. Dodging among the bustling crewmen, he found a relatively quiet place along the starboard rail where he could wait for a chance to go below. From time to time he glanced back at the following ship, growing steadily larger, as was the roiling mass of clouds behind it. He didn’t know which he was more nervous about: Black Stache, or the storm.

  I guess we’re going to get both, he thought.

  In a few minutes he saw his opportunity and ducked, unobserved, down the aft ladderway. He rapped softly on Molly’s door, and she opened it immediately. Peter was momentarily startled to see Mrs. Bumbrake on her bed, snoring; then he understood. Molly had put her to sleep.

  “Hurry,” Molly said, brushing past Peter and heading for the lower ladderway. He followed, and they descended to the hold level, where they had their first piece of good luck: there was no guard. Evidently Slank had decided that, for the moment, preparing for the storm was more important than protecting the trunk.

  Their second stroke of luck came when Molly pulled on the padlock. It came off easily in her hand; their ruse had not been detected. She opened the hold door and, with Peter behind her, stepped inside. At first he saw nothing in the darkness, though Molly seemed to know exactly where she was going. He heard her footsteps, then a rustling sound.

  “Help me get the canvas off,” she said.

  Holding his hands in front of him, Peter inched forward until he felt his knees bump into a solid bulk. He reached down, felt the rough canvas covering the trunk.

  “There’s a rope,” said Molly.

  Peter’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He saw the rope, and helped Molly work the canvas free. It dropped to the floor, exposing the trunk, and…

  UHHHH

  Moaning, Peter staggered back, momentarily blinded by a brilliant golden light filling the hold. He closed his eyes, but could still feel the light, a powerful, wonderful warmth flooding into his body, feeling so good. And there was more—bells, it sounded like, making some kind of fantastic music…

  “Peter! Peter!”

  Molly was shaking Peter’s arm. He opened his eyes to find the hold suddenly dim again.

  “The light,” he said. “What did…”

  “There are cracks in the trunk,” said Molly. “It’s not made right; I think the cracks are getting bigger. I’ve put the canvas back on.”

  Peter’s eyes were readjusting. He saw the trunk now; the canvas was over it once again, tucked loosely into the rope. But now the whole bulk, canvas and all, was glowing faintly. Peter stared into the glow, feeling lightheaded, euphoric. Feeling wonderful.

  Molly’s hand was on his arm again.

  “Peter,” she said, “I know this is difficult for you. It’s difficult for me, and I’m used to it.”

  Peter struggled to speak. “What?” he said, his own voice sounding distant to him. “I mean, what shall we…”

  “Help me lift it,” she said. “Take that end.”

  Following Molly’s lead, Peter bent and, reaching under the canvas, took an end of the trunk. Immediately he heard the music again, and felt the wonderful warmth, surging through his hands, his arms, into his body. He fought to keep his mind on what Molly was saying.

  “All right, then,” she said. “Lift it.”

  They rose, and to Peter’s surprise the trunk rose with them as if it weighed nothing. Fascinated, Peter let go of his end of the trunk; it hung in the air for a moment, then slowly, slower than a falling feather, began to descend. He caught it again, and raised it with just the barest effort. He heard the music again, the bells, and the warmth spread through his body. He felt peaceful, relaxed, yet at the same time completely aware of his surroundings, of Molly, of everything.

  “This way,” said Molly, holding her end of the trunk as she backed through the hold door, Peter following. They easily maneuvered the trunk to the ladderway, and Molly began to climb the steps, guiding her end of the trunk with one hand; Peter, on the bottom, pushing the almost-weightless bulk upward with his fingertips.

  They paused at the top of the ladderway, Peter again becoming aware of the creaking and rocking of the ship—he’d almost forgotten the storm raging outside.

  “Where are we taking it?” he asked.

  She pointed up. “To the main deck,” she said.

  “But they’ll see it!” said Peter.

  “By the time they do,” she said, “it will be in the sea.”

  “Overboard?” said Peter. “But I thought we were going to hide it!”

  “There’s no time,” said Molly. “Black Stache will be here in minutes.”

  “But what if it’s not him?” said Peter. “How do we know it’s him?”

  “Because Ammm told me,” said Molly. “And because there is no other reason why that ship would be coming for us now, in this storm. It’s not a rescue, Peter; it’s an attack. And this trunk is what he wants.”

  “But…” said Peter, “but…” He tried to think of an argument, but the only one that came to mind was: But I want to keep touching the trunk.

  Molly studied his face for a moment.

  “I know,” she said, softly. “I know. I feel it, too. More than you. But we must do this, Peter. Now.”

  She started forward again, and Peter, sighing, followed. They guided the trunk to the upper ladderway, and, again with Molly leading, they ascended the steps. The wind was shrieking outside now; through the opening, Peter saw rain flying past sideways in dense gray sheets.

  At the top of the ladderway, Molly stuck her head out and looked around. She ducked back down, her hair now wet and in wild disarray.

  “There are some men over there,” she said, pointing to the ship’s port side. “I think they’re shouting to the other ship. It’s very close. When we get the trunk onto the deck, we’ll go that way”—she gestured to the starboard side—“and throw it overboard directly. All right?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Peter,” Molly said, “if anybody sees us, if anybody tries to stop us, we must keep going, do you understand? We must not fail.”

  “All right,” said Peter.

  “Let’s go, then,” said Molly, and, grabbing the end of the trunk, stepped onto the deck. Peter followed, and in a moment found himself drenched with wind-driven rain. As Molly had said, a knot of sailors was at the port rail, shouting; in the swirling gloom beyond them, Peter saw the shape of a large, long, black ship, very close now; Peter recognized it as the ship he’d seen the day the Never Land left port, what seemed like years ago. Its crew was lowering sail, apparently preparing to come alongside.

  On the raised deck at the black ship’s stern, Peter saw a stocky helmsman, fighting to control the wheel as the two ships drew together. Next to him, partially hidden by a mast, was a tall man, wearing an officer’s uniform, apparently the captain. Peter noticed—even with the storm and confusion, Peter was noticing everything—that the tall man seemed to be deliberately using the mast to conceal his face. He looked at Molly, and saw that she had spotted the tall man, too. She caught Peter’s eye.

  “It’s him,” she said. “Come on.”

  Stepping carefully on the wet, pitching deck, they guided the trunk toward the starboard rail. The yelling from the port side was louder now, some of the shouts turned to cries of alarm as the two ships converged. Molly and Peter reached the starboard side, and Molly raised her end of the trunk over the rail.

  “Now!” she shouted, over the wind.

  Peter braced himself to shove his end and push the trunk into the sea. But as he did the hulls of the two ships, riding different parts of different waves, slammed together. Peter felt his feet slide out from under him as he fell backward, slamming the back of his head onto the deck. He heard a cry from Molly and saw that she, too, had fallen, almost landing on him; he was d
imly aware of the trunk settling gently onto the deck a few feet to the other side of her. From the port side of the ship Peter heard shouts, and now some screams.

  Head throbbing, Peter struggled to his knees.

  “Molly!” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m all right,” she said, sitting up. “The trunk! Peter, hurry!”

  Struggling to their feet, Molly and Peter staggered on the lurching deck to the trunk, Molly reaching it first, leaning down and…

  “PUT THAT DOWN!”

  Molly screamed as Slank, grabbing her by her hair, yanked her away from the trunk. Peter lunged forward, grabbed Slank’s arm, and sank his teeth into it, tasting blood. Now it was Slank’s turn to scream as he spun away from Peter, releasing Molly—all of them crashing to the rain-slicked deck.

  “PETER, THE TRUNK!” Molly shouted. Peter rolled, stood, got his arms around the trunk, and felt it come up easily from the deck. He turned toward the rail, just two steps now…

  “GET HIM!” roared Slank, struggling to his feet, and in that moment Peter felt a massive hand on his shoulder, felt himself yanked back and slammed to the deck, the trunk again slipping from his hands. Through the throbbing haze of his pain, Peter heard more screams. Looming above him, he saw the giant form of Little Richard, holding Molly, and now the fury-twisted face of Slank.

  “BITE ME?” he shrieked. “YOU DARE TO BITE ME?” Peter saw it all slowly, as if in a dream—the face coming closer, the hamlike fists closing violently on his shirt. He felt himself lifted high in the air, and he had a momentary glimpse of the horror on Molly’s face as Slank hurled him, with all his strength, over the side of the Never Land, toward the raging sea.

  CHAPTER 25

  A FLY IN A SPIDERWEB

  BLACK STACHE’S PLAN WAS GOING PERFECTLY. The crew of the Never Land had shown no sign of alarm as the disguised pirate ship came alongside.

  While the pirates were approaching, they’d heard some kind of commotion—shouting, then screams—coming from the deck of the Never Land. But whatever it was, it had not caused the old freighter to change course. Now the two ships were side by side; sails had been lowered, lines tossed to secure the ships together, fenders positioned to keep the hulls, which had slammed into each other, from colliding again.

  Stache kept his face hidden behind a mast, though he knew his ruse would not fool the Never Land sailors much longer. They’re bound to notice that my entire crew is barefoot.

  Stache had a single-shot flintlock pistol in his right hand, held to his side, out of sight. He liked the idea of a bloodless coup, with no sword soiled. The sight of pirates generally put such fear into merchant sailors that they often surrendered immediately.

  He waited, relying on Smee to be his eyes.

  From the corner of his mouth, Smee said, “They’s tied up to us now, Cap’n.”

  Like a fly in a spiderweb.

  “How many on deck?” said Stache.

  “A dozen or so crew. A few passengers, including some children.”

  “Armed?”

  “The children?”

  “No, you idjit! The crew.”

  “A few knives,” Smee said. “A pistol or two.”

  “Our crew?”

  “Ready and itching to go."The pirates had gathered along the rail, their blades concealed in their uniforms.

  “Good,” said Stache. “Now, call for the captain.”

  “AHOY THERE! NEVER LAND,” shouted Smee, to the other ship. “WHO’S IN CHARGE THERE, IS IT?” He knew this didn’t have the right ring to it, but there was no taking it back.

  “THAT WOULD BE ME!” a deep voice thundered back. The owner of the voice, a big man, stepped to the rail; Smee saw that the man’s arm was bleeding.

  “ARE YOU THE CAP’N THEN, MATE?” Smee said, then cringed. He wasn’t getting any of this navy talk right.

  “THE CAP’N IS… INDISPOSED,” the other man said. “I’M THE FIRST MATE, SLANK.” His eyes were on the half hidden form of Black Stache. “IS THAT CAP’N SCOTT?”

  “NO, I…” stammered Smee. “I MEAN, YES, BUT…I MEAN…”

  “You idjit,” hissed Stache.

  Slank, suddenly suspicious, scanned the hard, unshaven faces of the men lining the rail of the dark ship, then glanced down, and noticed the bare feet.

  “CUT THE LINES!” he bellowed. “CUT THE LINES!”

  But before the crew could act, Black Stache was out from behind the mast.

  “NOW!” he roared, and before the sound had died from his lips, two dozen pirates had drawn their blades and leaped onto the deck of the Never Land, whose crewmen froze in terror.

  Stache, moving calmly, deliberately, followed his men over to the Never Land deck. He sauntered up to Slank and pointed his pistol directly into his face.

  “Mr. Slank, is it?” he said. “Black Stache, at your service.”

  Some Never Land crewmen whimpered at the name. Slank, on the other hand, stared coolly at Black Stache for a moment, then—in a reaction that Stache found odd—

  turned and looked back over his shoulder, toward a young girl who was standing by the far rail, sobbing, as a huge man held her arms, as if keeping her from jumping over the side.

  Slank turned back to Stache, again meeting his eyes. Stache was impressed by how little fear the man showed. I might have room for a man like that, he thought. But what he said was: “If you wants to keep breathing, Mr. Slank, you’ll tell your men to disarm.”

  Not taking his eyes away from Stache’s, Slank shouted to his crew: “Put them down, men!”

  The relieved Never Land sailors, who’d had no intention of trading steel with the pirates, hastily dropped their weapons to the deck.

  “Very good,” Stache said, stepping closer to Slank, his pistol barrel now almost touching the space between Slank’s eyes. “Now, we ain’t got much time with this storm, so I’ll make this quick. You have something I want. Where is it, Mr. Slank?”

  Slank took a moment to answer. Again, Stache was impressed by the man’s calm in the face of a loaded pistol.

  “We have a few women,” Slank said. “And plenty of rum. But if you think there’s treasure on this old scow, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

  Stache’s finger tightened slightly on the trigger, then he eased off. Was Slank bluffing? Or could it be that he didn’t know what he had on his ship? Stache thought about it for a moment, then decided that, for now, Slank was more useful alive than dead.

  “Mr. Slank,” he said, “if I don’t find what I’m looking for, it’s you who’ll be sorry. Now, step aside.”

  Stache turned to a knot of pirates nearby, raising his voice over the wind.

  “YOU MEN COME WITH ME,” he shouted. “WE’RE LOOKING FOR A TRUNK.”

  CHAPTER 26

  INTO THE SEA

  PETER COULD NOT SWIM, so he knew, even as he felt Slank lift him, felt his body being hurled over the side of the Never Land, that he was going to die.

  He was terrified, of course, but at the same time, as he felt himself tumble in space, he was acutely aware of his terror, as if it were somebody else’s; he was also acutely aware of the pain in his head, of Molly’s anguished screams from the deck, of the sound of the wind, of everything around him.

  It seems to be happening so slowly.

  But it wasn’t happening slowly; it was happening very quickly; Peter was aware of that, too. It was only that, since he’d touched the trunk, he could think about it so much faster than he usually thought about things. He could even think about how fast he was thinking about things.

  But I’m still about to die.

  Peter saw he was going to land in a trough between two waves.

  Should I hold my breath?

  He noticed that one of the waves was slightly higher than the other, and had some seaweed in its churning foam.

  If I hold my breath, it will take me longer to die. Is that good or bad?

  He decided to hold his breath, and to try to twist his bod
y so he could look up at the ship as he entered the water, in case somebody tried to throw him a rope.

  Though I doubt Slank will throw me a rope….

  He held his breath, and he got his body twisted around just as he reached the water, so he was looking up at the ship as he felt his left leg plunge into the sea.

  It’s cold.

  And then his right leg, and then his waist, and then…

  What?

  He felt it in his back, a sudden pain, as if he’d landed on something blunt, and…

  What’s happening to me?

  Peter felt his body rising with the swell of the wave, and then, as the wave receded, he felt himself rise out of the wave, all the way out, back into the wind.

  I’m…like the rat. Like Molly…

  He twisted around and saw that he was several feet above the water now, drifting across the tops of the waves, the wind pushing him away from the Never Land. He heard an odd sound beneath him, looked down, saw the familiar rounded snout.

  The porpoise. It pushed me up out of the sea.

  It was chittering at him, but he had no idea what it was saying. Peter was sure it was the large porpoise, the one Molly had been talking to.

  Ammm, that’s what she called him.

  The porpoise began to swim toward the Never Land, now receding in the distance, then back toward Peter, then toward the ship again, then back. More chittering.

  He wants me to follow.

  Tentatively, Peter waved his arms; the wind was carrying him away, but he found that his arm motion had turned his body, so that he was horizontal, with his head pointing toward the ship. He waved his arms some more; nothing. Then he heard Ammm squeaking urgently, now from directly under him. Peter looked down, and…

  Whoa.

  His body suddenly swooped forward, against the wind, gaining speed….

  I’m going into the sea!

  Peter raised his head; instantly, his body swooped upward, into a vertical position. He stopped moving forward, and found himself again being carried back by the wind. More squeaking from below. Tentatively, Peter leaned his body toward the horizontal again, and again he started moving forward, more slowly this time.