Starcatchers 01 - Peter and the Starcatchers

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “How d’you know it’s here?” said Little Richard. “How d’you know the storm didn’t carry it off?”

  “Oh, it’s here, all right,” said Slank, his hand going to the chain at his neck. “I can feel it. It’s here, and it’s going to be mine.”

  CHAPTER 43

  VISITORS

  ALF GAPED AT THE SAVAGE FOR SEVERAL SECONDS before he could get the words out.

  “You…you speak English,” he said.

  “Yes,” said the savage. “So, apparently, do you.”

  The savage grunt-clicked something to the others, who chuckled.

  “B—But how?” said Alf.

  “Oh, English is easy,” said the savage. “You want a difficult language, try this one.” He rattled off a bizarre-sounding sequence of grunts, clicks, and pops, culminating in a low whistle. This got another big laugh.

  “Yes,” said Alf, “but what I mean is, how did you learn English?”

  “The same way you did, I assume,” said the savage. “From listening to Englishmen. I spent thirteen years on ships of the British navy.”

  “You was a sailor?” said Alf.

  “I think a more accurate word is slave,” said the savage, “although the term the navy used was pressed into service. Twenty years ago they landed here and took me. And my two brothers.”

  The savage’s tone remained conversational, but his eyes had turned cold.

  “My brothers responded to captivity less well than I,” he continued. “They were both gone within a year. But I was…adaptable, and quite good at languages. Thirteen years I spent in the company of—doing the bidding of—Englishmen. Thirteen years, until the kindness of fate, and a shipwreck, brought me back home, to Mollusk.”

  “Mollusk?” said Alf.

  “The name we call this island, our home,” said the savage. “Actually, our word for it is…” He uttered a strange sound, from somewhere deep in his throat. “We call ourselves the Mollusk people. I have the honor of being our leader. My name—or the English version of my name—is Fighting Prawn.”

  “Fighting Prawn?” said Alf.

  “Does my name amuse you, Englishman?” said Fighting Prawn.

  “No,” said Alf, his grin evaporating.

  “If I may ask,” said Fighting Prawn, “what is your name?”

  “Alf,” said Alf.

  “Alf,” repeated Fighting Prawn. He said something to the other Mollusks, which included “Alf.” They roared with laughter. Fighting Prawn turned back to Alf.

  “In our language,” he said, “Alf means squid poop.”

  “Ah,” said Alf.

  “Now, Alf,” said Fighting Prawn, getting a chuckle from the men, “these boys”—he gestured to James, Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted—“are they your children?”

  “Oh, no,” said Alf. “Them’s orphans, from the ship.”

  “I see,” said Fighting Prawn. “And where is your ship at present?”

  “Bottom of the sea, I reckon,” said Alf. “Storm broke her to pieces, it did. We barely got off with our skins.”

  “Pity,” said Fighting Prawn. “And were there any other survivors?”

  “Dunno,” said Alf, shaking his head. “It was terrible rough out there. A bloody miracle we found this island, it is.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Fighting Prawn. “We get visitors here every year or so. Some arrive through misfortune, as in your case; others arrive with a purpose. At one time, the Mollusks welcomed these visitors. We have learned better.”

  “Wh—what do you…mean?” said Alf.

  “I mean,” said Fighting Prawn, “that we have learned that things seem to work best on Mollusk when the only inhabitants are Mollusks.”

  There were a few moments of silence, broken by James.

  “Sir, if you please,” he said.

  “Yes, boy?” said Fighting Prawn.

  “What happened to the other, uh, visitors? Do they still live here?”

  Fighting Prawn regarded James for a moment, his black eyes impassive. “No,” he said, finally. “They no longer live here.”

  “So,” said James, “wh—when visitors come, you let them go?”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Fighting Prawn.

  CHAPTER 44

  PARTING WAYS

  PETER STOPPED, HOLDING UP HIS HAND. Molly paused a foot behind him.

  They’d moved along the edge of the clearing, following the sound of voices. Mostly they’d heard two—Alf, and another man—both speaking English, which puzzled Peter, as the only men he’d seen other than Alf were savages.

  Now, approaching the voices, separated from the clearing by only a few yards of thick vegetation, Peter turned and leaned in close to Molly, speaking in the barest whisper.

  “How much of that stuff have you got left in your locket?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered back. “Why? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m going to run out there and start yelling,” said Peter. “I’ll get the savages to chase me into the jungle. Then you can run over to the boys and Alf, and fly them out of there. We can meet on the beach.”

  Molly shook her head. “No, Peter,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ve got enough starstuff left for that. Besides, they would likely catch us both before we took two steps.”

  “Then what’s your plan?” said Peter.

  “We go find the trunk first,” said Molly. “With more starstuff…”

  “No,” Peter interrupted. “They could be…dead…by then. We don’t know where the trunk is. We don’t even know if it’s on this island.”

  Molly reached up, wrapped a hand around her locket and said, “It’s not far off. I can feel it. We must find it. It’s our only hope to help the boys.”

  “You don’t care about my mates,” Peter said. “You just want your trunk.”

  “That’s not true,” she said. “Of course I care about them. But, yes, the trunk is more important than any of us . . . than all of us combined. And right now it’s also our only hope to help the boys, and ourselves. Please, Peter.”

  Peter shook his head. “I won’t leave my mates,” he said. “I can’t.”

  “All right,” said Molly. “Fine, then. I’ll find the trunk on my own.”

  “Seriously? You won’t help me?”

  “Help you get yourself killed? No, I won’t.”

  Peter drew back, his expression hurt and angry. “Fine, then,” he said. “Good luck finding the trunk…without me.”

  Not waiting for her response, he turned and crept closer to the clearing. As he reached its edge, he stopped and looked behind him.

  Molly was gone.

  Fine, then.

  On his stomach now, Peter inched forward until he could peer into the clearing. There were savages standing only a few feet in front of him; beyond them he saw his mates. Alf stood with them. Although he’d heard talking as he crawled forward, there was only silence now, and a fearful look on Alf’s face.

  Peter patted the ground around him; his hand closed on a rock, and he tugged it out of the damp, spongy soil. His plan now—it was the best he could come up with, under the circumstances—was to create a distraction. He would hurl the rock at the savages, yell, and then retreat into the jungle, hoping they’d chase after him. That would give Alf and the boys a chance to run off.

  Holding the rock, Peter slowly rose to his feet.

  Here goes nothing.

  He took aim at the older savage, who appeared to be the leader. He drew his arm back…judged the distance…then brought it forward, hard.

  Nothing happened. His hand was empty.

  Where’s the rock? Peter whirled, then gasped; behind him, nearly on top of him, towered a large savage, holding Peter’s rock up next to his face, smiling broadly.

  From the clearing, the older savage spoke: “Ah, I see Fierce Clam has found yet another visitor. Welcome, boy. Come join your friends. I was just about to explain our policy regarding strangers on this island.”


  CHAPTER 45

  THE WATCHERS

  BLACK STACHE AND SMEE STRUGGLED to the top of a steep ridge, breaking out from jungle to a thick green, slippery moss, laid like a carpet over a black, gnarly volcanic rock.

  They were lost. They’d followed the tracks from the beach into the jungle and almost immediately became confused and frustrated by the suffocating vegetation. For the past hour they’d been thrashing around almost at random, until finally Stache had decided to climb the ridge and get his bearings. He’d taken Smee, leaving the rest of their raiding party at the base of the mountain, with strict orders to keep alert, though Stache was sure they’d fallen asleep within minutes of his leaving them.

  Looking down at the menacing green carpet below, Stache held out his right hand, palm up. Smee studied it for a moment, then, concluding they were celebrating their successful climb, reached out his hand and shook Stache’s.

  “I DON’T WANT YOUR BLEEDIN’ HAND, YOU IDJIT!” bellowed Stache, startling a bright-green bird into flight from its perch in the trees just below. “I WANT THE BLEEDIN’ SPYGLASS.”

  Smee quickly tugged the brass spyglass from his waistband and handed it to Stache, who held it to his eye and began a slow, methodical sweep of the island below, left to right. About two-thirds of the way across, he stopped the glass.

  “Aha!” he said.

  “Geseundheit,” said Smee.

  “No, you fool, look there!” Stache said, pointing. “At the edge of that clearing. D’you see it?”

  Smee peered downward, but saw nothing at the edge of any clearing. He didn’t even see a clearing.

  “It’s a camp,” said Stache, still looking through the glass.

  “A camp?”

  “Savages,” said Stache.

  “Savages? The kind that, that…”

  “…that eats people, yes,” said Stache. “Cannibals, by the look of them.”

  “So we’ll be getting off this island now, Cap’n?” said Smee. “We’ll be getting back on the ship and sailing right…”

  “No, Smee,” said Stache, with a grim smile.

  “No? But, Cap’n, them cabinals…”

  “…they have the boys,” said Stache.

  “The boys from the Never Land? Alive?”

  “No, chewed to the bone,” Stache snarled, lunging at Smee, who jumped back. “Of course they’re alive! It’s the same boys, including that cursed little devil who stole the trunk when it was in me grasp. And there’s a sailor with ’em, from the Never Land. He looks to be talking to an old savage with white hair.”

  “Talking? To a savage?”

  “I’m wondering about that meself,” said Stache. “I don’t like this, Smee. I don’t like it a bit. I’m wondering if the boys still have that trunk, and are using the treasure—my treasure, Smee—to negotiate with them savages.”

  Stache handed the glass to Smee, and stood for a moment, staring toward the clearing, thinking. “Smee,” he said. “Fetch the men.”

  With the telescope now held to his own eye, Smee said, “But them cabinals have spears, Cap’n. Lots of spears. Lots of cabinals, far as that goes.”

  “It’s cannibals, idjit,” said Stache. “Now, shut up, and do as you’re told. Them boys down there…Mark my words, them boys is still mixed up with that trunk, with my trunk. And if them boys is working with the savages, I intend to find out about it. We’re going down there, quiet-like, see what’s what. Fetch the men now.”

  As Smee, grumbling, started down the mountainside, Stache turned his gaze back toward the clearing, and spoke softly to himself.

  “And if it comes to cutting,” he said, “they’ll learn that spears is no match for pirate steel.”

  CHAPTER 46

  SOMETHING IN THERE

  PETER, PROPELLED BY A SHOVE from the big man behind him, stumbled into the clearing. The big man grunted something to Fighting Prawn, who nodded, then said to Peter, “Fierce Clam thought he heard you whispering. Was there someone with you, boy?”

  “No,” Peter answered quickly. Then, frowning, he said: “You speak English.”

  Fighting Prawn sighed. “I’m growing tired of having people point that out to me,” he said. “Préférez-vous que je parle francais?”

  “What?” said Peter.

  “Never mind,” said Fighting Prawn. He grunt-clicked something, and Fierce Clam melted into the jungle, followed by two other Mollusks.

  “If there are others,” said Fighting Prawn, “we’ll find them.”

  Peter thought of Molly, alone in the jungle, hunted. Maybe I should have gone with her.

  He shook his head, turning his attention to Alf and the boys, who looked tired and scared, but relieved to see him.

  “Are you all right, lad?” said Alf. “When you went overboard, we was so worried….”

  “I’m all right,” said Peter. “How ’bout you?”

  Alf, nodding toward the Mollusks, gave a Who knows? shrug.

  “We’re all right,” said James.

  “Oh, yes, we’re fine,” hissed Tubby Ted, “except for the part about being captured by savages.”

  “Savages?” said Fighting Prawn. He stepped toward the seated Tubby Ted. “You think we’re savages, boy?”

  Tubby Ted, whimpering, scooted back a foot on his bottom.

  “We’re not savages here,” continued Fighting Prawn. “I know. I’ve seen savagery. I saw it often when I was a…guest of the British navy. I experienced it many times myself, at the wrong end of a whip. Oh yes, boy, I know what savagery is, and it’s not to be found here. Except when we have visitors.”

  “Sir,” said Alf, “if you please, we ain’t savages neither. I’m just an old sea dog, with no great love of the British navy myself. And these here is just boys.”

  “Yes,” said Fighting Prawn. “English boys. Who will grow to be English men.”

  Alf started to answer, but Fighting Prawn turned away, and began walking toward the mass of trees at the center of the clearing. The Mollusks who’d been surrounding Alf and the boys stepped forward, tugged the seated boys to their feet, and began herding the group after Fighting Prawn.

  As they walked toward the trees, Mollusks emerged from the labyrinth of vertical branches to watch their approach; by the time they reached the tree complex, the crowd had grown to at least a hundred men, women, and children, staring at Alf and the others, who walked in a close, nervous little clot.

  Peter whispered to Alf, “What d’you think they’re going to do to us?”

  “We’ll be fine, lad,” whispered Alf, though his eyes betrayed his misgivings.

  “They’re savages,” said Tubby Ted. “They live in a tree. They mean to eat us. Look.”

  Coming into view ahead, just past the tree complex, smoke was rising lazily from a large fire pit.

  Prentiss and Thomas clutched at Peter, whimpering.

  “It’s all right,” said Peter, putting his arms around the smaller boys, one on each side of him. “Nobody’s going to eat us.” I hope.

  They were at the edge of the trees now. Peter tried to peer into the labyrinth of branch-poles, but no matter which opening he looked in, he saw only a few feet before the passageway twisted out of sight, into the gloomy interior.

  They moved along the edge of this strange tree fortress until they came to a section where the exterior branch-poles had been fortified with horizontal logs, lashed to the uprights with thick rope made from braided vines. These logs formed a wall easily ten feet high and forty feet wide; Peter could see that the wall curved inward at each end, continuing into the fortress.

  Like a cage, Peter thought.

  Fighting Prawn stopped next to this wall, and the little procession stopped with him. Now the rest of the Mollusks gathered around in a semicircle, staring at Alf and the children, who faced the tribe, their backs to the logs.

  Fighting Prawn began talking to the throng in Mollusk, the tribe listening in motionless silence. His speech dragged on for five minutes, then ten. When he stopped, one
of the other Mollusk men spoke, then several of the women. Then Fighting Prawn spoke again, at length; then some others. It seemed to be a debate of some kind—serious, but not heated.

  Peter noticed that the bright tropical light had faded slightly. Soon it would be dusk; then night would come to the jungle. He wondered how Molly was doing out there. I hope she’s all right. He realized that, aside from being scared, he was tired and hungry; it had been a long, foodless day. He leaned back, propping himself against the log wall.

  Suddenly, he jerked forward. There was something moving behind him, inside the wall; he had not so much felt it as sensed it. He turned to see what it was, but there was very little space between the logs, and all he could see in the cracks between them was darkness.

  But there was something in there.

  Staring at the wall, Peter realized that the Mollusks had stopped talking. He turned and saw that the tribe was again staring silently at the prisoners. Fighting Prawn stepped forward.

  “Englishmen,” he said. “We have made our decision. It was more difficult than usual, because some of you are children. But we have a law for visitors. We have learned that this law is the only way we can ensure the survival of the Mollusk people. We have made exceptions in the past, and we always regretted it. We have since decided that there can be no exceptions, even for children. The law must be applied to you as well. I am sorry.”

  Fighting Prawn grunt-clicked something. A dozen adult male Mollusks began moving forward. The boys shrank back against the log wall, huddling behind Alf.

  “What do you mean?” pleaded Alf. “What law? What’re you going to do to us?”

  Fighting Prawn didn’t answer. The men kept coming forward. Behind them, a column of smoke from the fire pit drifted diagonally into the bright-blue sky. James, Prentiss, and Thomas were clinging to Peter, who found he could not breathe.