Peter and the Shadow Thieves

by Ridley Pearson Dave Barry

  But for now, Peter was too tired to worry about that. His hunger and thirst would have to wait. For now: sleep. As his eyes fluttered shut, he heard a soft tinkling and saw Tinker Bell landing on the yard just above him.

  “G’night, Tink,” he mumbled, so tired he barely got the words out before sleep pulled him under.

  Tink didn’t answer. She dropped down into the fold with him, settling into his tousled mass of reddish hair, her favorite place to rest. Almost instantly, she too was asleep.

  Which meant neither of them was looking down.

  Which meant neither of them saw when, in the waning moments of darkness, the black form of Lord Ombra slithered from a companionway onto the quarterdeck. Neither saw the hooded head move from side to side, as if searching, like a dog smelling something in the air. Neither saw the hood pause as it faced the aftmost mast. Neither saw it slowly train its gaze upward, upward…only to stop suddenly when the first rays of dawn flooded the ship in an exhilarating light.

  Recoiling from the glare, the dark form moved quickly back to the companionway. Then it slithered down into the bowels of the ship, but not before stopping to take one look back, and upward…

  Directly at the furled sail.

  CHAPTER 17

  OMBRA’S FEELING

  LORD OMBRA GLIDED ACROSS the floor planks of the captain’s quarters, where thick wool blankets hung over the stern windows, preventing even a sliver of sunlight from penetrating. A lone lantern suspended from an overhead beam cast a dim yellow light. The lantern rocked and tilted back and forth with the movement of the ship, sending shadows chasing along the floor and walls.

  Captain Nerezza, seated at a table beneath the lantern, studied a chart of the South Atlantic, with a hand-drawn speck representing Mollusk Island. He had not heard Ombra enter, but then he never did. He kept his eyes on the chart, hoping his uninvited visitor would go away.

  But Ombra came closer, gliding among the moving shadows, though he himself cast none. Standing directly over Nerezza, he spoke, his voice a low moan.

  “I wonder, Captain, if it might be possible to send one of your hands aloft to inspect the mizzen sails?”

  “Inspect? Inspect for what, sir?” As he spoke the word “sir,” Nerezza’s wooden nose whistled, as happened when he was agitated. Ombra or no, Nerezza did not like to be told, even politely, what to do with his crew.

  “A stowaway, perhaps,” said Ombra. “Perhaps nothing.”

  “Lord Ombra,” said Nerezza, trying to keep the anger from his voice. “If there were a stowaway, my men would have—”

  Ombra silenced him with a raised hand. Nerezza felt a chill creep along his neck.

  “Humor me, Captain,” groaned Ombra. “It’s just a feeling I have.”

  I didn’t know you had feelings, thought Nerezza.

  “Ah, but I do have them,” said Ombra, as if Nerezza had spoken aloud. “And I have learned to trust them.”

  Nerezza stammered out a reply. “Of…of course,” he said. “As you wish. I’ll send a boy up to take a look around.”

  “Good,” said Ombra. “I will retire to my cabin.”

  Ombra spent the day in a tiny room, a windowless, coffinlike space. The crew had strict orders not to look in there—not that any man would.

  “Yes, Lord Ombra,” said Nerezza. “If we find anything, I—” he stopped, realizing that Ombra was gone.

  Nerezza rose from the table and went to open the door.

  He touched the handle, then gasped and drew his hand back. The handle was cold as ice.

  Regaining his composure, he opened the door and ascended through a companionway.

  On deck, he looked up at the mizzenmast sails and rigging; there was nothing amiss. He sighed, then called to an officer.

  “Send a boy up to check the mizzen sails,” he said.

  The officer, puzzled, risked a question: “If I may ask, sir, check for what?”

  “Just check them!” barked Nerezza. He stormed below, embarrassed to be giving orders that made no sense to him.

  A feeling, indeed, he thought.

  CHAPTER 18

  “NO BEES AT SEA”

  SEAMAN CONRAD DILLINGER, agile as a monkey in a tree, climbed the rigging that ran down from the mizzenmast. Even though the ship rode the sea in constant motion—up-and-down, forward-and-back, side-to-side—Conrad easily kept his balance. He didn’t mind being sent up to check the sails, because he enjoyed the view so much. The ocean spread out before him like a vast blue tablecloth, interrupted by the occasional white stitch of foam on a wave.

  He glanced down to the ship’s deck, now far below. A few crew members mopped the decks, their heads down. Most were below, eating breakfast. Conrad could smell the biscuits and bacon from here. He glanced up at the sails; they looked fine to him, but he’d been ordered to check them, and check them he would.

  Peter awoke to the sound of urgent bells in his ear. He yawned and was about to ask Tink what the clamor was about when she placed her tiny hand across his lips to silence him.

  What? Peter asked with his eyes.

  Tink answered with a soft flurry of bells. A boy is coming!

  Peter, instantly wide awake, sneaked a peek over the fold of the weathered canvas. Sure enough, a young sailor—not much older than he was—was quickly climbing the rigging toward the reefed topsail where Peter hid.

  Where to hide? Peter wondered.

  Tink pointed forward. The topmost sail on the next mast was reefed, just like the one Peter was hiding in.

  There, said Tink’s bells.

  Peter looked at the deck; the few crew members he saw on deck had their heads aimed down at their work as they mopped. On the main mast was a lookout in the crow’s nest, but he was facing forward. But what about the sailor climbing toward him? Wouldn’t he see Peter fly across?

  I’ll deal with the boy, chimed Tink. You be ready.

  “Be ready for what?” whispered Peter.

  But Tink was gone.

  Conrad had almost reached the second yardarm when he heard it.

  Bells.

  But not the ship’s bells, which were as familiar to Conrad as his own heartbeat. These sounded like tiny bells. Tiny…beautiful bells, coming from the furled sail above him. He looked up, and…

  WHOOSH!

  …something shot past his left ear. A bird? It was about the size of a bird, but…but it was glowing. And it moved far too fast for a bird; far too fast for Conrad to get a good view of it. He looked down, and…

  WHOOSH!

  …it shot past his head again, this time going up, and then around behind him. Trying to follow it, he twisted his head violently and swung around on the shroud one-handed, and…

  WHOOSH!

  …it shot past him again, and then…

  WHOOSH!

  …again, and this time, in his frantic, twisting effort to get a glimpse of this thing that was tormenting him, Conrad did something that he never would have thought was possible for a rigging rat like himself.

  He lost his grip.

  And then, gravity being what it is, he fell.

  Peter saw the boy fall. He’d been watching as Tink swooped around the young seaman. When he was sure the boy was distracted, Peter had launched himself across the space between the masts, toward his new hiding place. But he kept his eyes on the action below him as the boy fell. For an instant the boy appeared doomed, but then he hit a rigging line and grabbed hold, stopping himself just before he crashed onto the deck.

  Peter shot toward the sail, diving into its folds just as the sound of the boy’s strangled shout reached the crow’s-nest lookout and the men on deck. All eyes turned to the young seaman, white-faced and wobbly, clinging to the rigging. None saw the golden blur streaking toward the sail where Peter now hid.

  “Thanks, Tink,” he whispered as she nestled in next to him.

  Tink tinkled modestly.

  “I am very, very glad you came,” said Peter.

  You should be, said the bells
.

  Safely back on deck, his legs still shaky, Conrad Dillinger looked back into the rigging, an expression of puzzlement on his face. Watching him with some amusement was a leather-faced older hand who’d been swabbing the deck onto which Conrad had very nearly fallen.

  “Wakes you up, don’t it?” he said. “Almost fell myself once. Wakes you right up. Good thing you caught yourself, or I’d have had quite a mess to mop down here, ha-ha.”

  Conrad looked at him.

  “Best thing is to get right back up there,” said the old swabbie.

  “Did you see it?” said Conrad.

  “Did I see what?” the swabbie inquired. He spat a brown glob over the rail.

  “There was this yellow thing. Like a bird, only too fast for a bird. More like a…bee. Did you see a yellow bee?”

  “You’re talking like you hit your head,” said the swabbie. “Ain’t no bees out at sea.” He smiled at the sound of that, revealing a mouth nearly devoid of teeth. “No bees at sea,” he repeated, and then he turned it into a song:

  “Ain’t no bees out to sea if you please.

  If you please, when you sneeze mind the breeze…”

  Off the old man went, mopping and singing. His song had a catchy tune; in a few moments the other swabbies were singing along with him. Conrad found himself humming along as he looked back up at the rigging. There had been something flying around him up there; he was sure of that. What he wasn’t sure about was whether he should report this to an officer. He was worried that he’d be ridiculed, especially if he mentioned the strange feeling he’d had just before he’d managed to catch himself—the feeling of floating. And what about the bells? He had definitely heard bells. Should he report that? But who would believe him?

  Conrad decided he would think about it later. Right now, it was time for breakfast. Following the smell of biscuits and bacon, he headed below.

  Hiding in the sail far above, Peter smelled the biscuits and bacon, too.

  “I’m hungry, Tink,” he said. “And thirsty.”

  Tinker Bell responded with a stern burst of bells.

  “No, I won’t go down there during the day,” he said. “But tonight I have to find water and something to eat, or I’ll never make it to England.”

  More bells, softer now.

  “You’re right,” said Peter. “Right now I need to sleep. Wake me when it’s dark, would you?”

  A nod from Tink, and in a minute’s time Peter was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 19

  ANYTHING UNUSUAL

  “WHAT DID HE FIND?” said Ombra.

  He and Captain Nerezza were taking lunch, seated across from each other at a heavy table in the captain’s darkened quarters. Nerezza detested these meals, because of Ombra’s bizarre dining habits.

  Ombra ate only one thing: octopus. He ate it raw, and preferably live, out of a wooden bucket, placed on the table by a nervous cook’s mate, who quickly fled the cabin. Ombra would settle at the table and lean his black-cloaked form over the bucket, making hideous sucking and slurping sounds; occasionally black ink would squirt onto the table and floor. Nerezza found it difficult to eat his own food, sitting across from this grotesque spectacle.

  “What did who find?” said Nerezza.

  Ombra made a sucking sound, and Nerezza saw a tentacle, still writhing, disappear into the shadow beneath the hood.

  “The boy you sent up to check the mizzen sails,” said Ombra. “What did he find?”

  “Oh, him,” said Nerezza a bit smugly. “Nothing. As I expected.”

  “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

  “Not in the sails, no.”

  The hooded head lifted from the bucket, and although Nerezza could not see Ombra’s eyes, he felt the chill of his gaze.

  “But he saw something?”

  “He thought he saw something,” corrected Nerezza. “He lost his balance and blamed it on a bee.”

  “A bee.”

  “It’s ridiculous, of course,” said Nerezza. “There’s no bees out here. A gull is what he saw, if he saw anything. I took him off his ration of grog. He’s too young for grog if he’s seeing bees.”

  Ombra slurped down another piece of octopus. Then his hood came up again.

  “You will double the watch tonight,” he said, sliding his chair back and standing.

  Nerezza wanted to object. He didn’t appreciate doubling the watch; it would disrupt the shifts. But all he said was: “As you wish, Lord Ombra.”

  “If any man sees anything unusual,” groaned Ombra, “I want to be told immediately.” He slid toward the door, passing uncomfortably close to Nerezza, who had to fight the urge to recoil.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Nerezza, though what he thought was, What are the men supposed to see? Bees?

  Ombra stopped, and Nerezza felt his gaze. “Possibly,” he said. And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE SIGNAL

  MOLLY WAITED UNTIL THE MAID had set the tea service down and left the sitting room of their splendid London home. When the maid was out of earshot, Molly moved closer to her mother and spoke in a whisper.

  “Have you heard from Father?” she said.

  Louise Aster poured a cup of tea and handed it to her daughter before answering.

  “No, dear, not yet.”

  “Is that bad, do you think?” whispered Molly. “Do you think he’s all right?”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” said her mother, pouring herself a cup. “He said it might be some time before he could get word to us.”

  Molly, setting her teacup down, rose and walked to the window. The sitting room looked out on Kensington Palace Gardens, one of London’s finest streets, a broad boulevard lined on both sides with massive mansions. It was a typically gloomy London day, though for once it was not raining. A carriage rumbled past, clots of mud flying off the wheels, puffs of breath steaming from the horses’ nostrils, the top-hatted driver hunched down into his overcoat, trying to keep warm.

  On the sidewalk in front of the Aster house, looking cold but vigilant, stood the massive, sturdy form of Mr. Hodge. Molly knew that Mr. Jarvis was watching the back of the house, with the dog, Hornblower. The third guard, Mr. Cadigan, was upstairs resting. Rain or no rain, there were always two of these men standing guard outside. Sometimes Molly took them tea and biscuits, for which they were quite grateful, especially Hornblower. Molly had tried several times to engage the men in conversation, hoping to get them to talk about who, or what, they were watching for, or guarding against. These efforts had been fruitless: the men were polite, but revealed nothing.

  “Oh, Mother…I hate to say it, but I miss Mrs. Bumbrake at times like this. She’s something of a comfort, in spite of herself.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. As soon as her sister is feeling better, she’ll be back. A fortnight at most.”

  “I do hate this,” said Molly.

  “I’d rather you not use that word, dear,” said her mother. “It’s entirely unacceptable.” She continued, “Now, what is it you dislike?”

  “This feeling of…of waiting,” said Molly impatiently.

  “Waiting for what?”

  “For…for something bad to happen.”

  “I’m sure nothing bad is going to happen.”

  “Then why are there men guarding our house?” said Molly.

  Louise hesitated before she answered, and Molly saw a flicker of emotion cross her usually placid face. But all she said was, “We’re perfectly safe, dear. Those men are here because your father wanted to make sure of that.”

  Molly’s anger rose, and with it her voice. “Mother,” she said, “I’m not a child. I know what kind of people the Others are. I was on the ship with them, remember? I was captured by that awful man Slank. I’ve seen what they’ll do to get the starst—”

  Molly stopped midword as her mother gave her an uncharacteristically sharp look, followed by a barely perceptible nod toward the doorway. Molly glanced in that direction and saw the maid standing there
, just outside the room. She was the newest member of the household staff, a black-haired, rail-thin woman with a narrow face.

  “Yes, Jenna?” asked Louise.

  “Did you need anything else, ma’am?” said the maid.

  “No, Jenna, thank you,” said Louise. “We’re fine.”

  Jenna bowed and left. Louise rose from her chair and crossed to where Molly was standing. Her expression was still calm, but her cheeks had a pink tinge that Molly knew meant she was angry.

  “Molly,” Louise said, her voice low but firm, “if you don’t wish to be treated like a child, you must not act like one. Yes, the Others are dangerous. Don’t you think I know that? But your father has done—is doing—all that he can to deal with the situation, and to protect us. For our part, we must be brave and do our best to maintain appearances. Above all, we must not discuss these matters—ever—in front of the staff.”

  Molly, chastened, nodded. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes I—”

  She was interrupted by the resonating bong of the big front-door chime. She and her mother exchanged a Who-could-that-be? look. Their question was answered a moment later when Jenna reappeared in the doorway and said, “It’s Master George, ma’am. To see Miss Molly.”

  Molly blushed, drawing a small smile from her mother.

  “Please show him in, Jenna,” said Louise.

  In a moment, the lanky form of George Darling gangled into the room, all arms and legs and ears, a sandy-blond fourteen-year-old who would one day be a tall and handsome man, but who was still learning to operate his suddenly growing body.

  “H…Hullo, Mrs. Aster,” he stammered to Louise.

  “Hello, George,” she said.

  “Hullo, Molly,” George said, his face, particularly his protruding ears, turning the shade of a ripe tomato.