Peter and the Starcatchers (18 page)

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s al right,” said Peter, feeling like an idiot.

“Anyway,” Mol y said, “Ammm said, at least I
think
he said”—she fought down a sob—“that Father’s ship has been sunk by pirates.”

“Mol y, no!” said Peter.

Mol y shook her head. “But Ammm also said, I think, that the other porpoises had rescued Father.”

“Thank goodness,” Peter said.

“Yes,” said Mol y. “But Ammm said something else.”

“What?” said Peter.

“He said, ‘Bad man hunt Mol y ship,’” said Mol y.

“Bad man?” said Peter. “What bad man?”

“Peter,” she said, “have you ever heard of a pirate cal ed the Black Moustache?”

“Yes,” said Peter. He’d heard the crew talk, heard the fear in their voices.

“I think he’s after the
Never Land.
”

Peter felt a chil . “After
this
ship? But this is just an old…Wait—are you saying he knows about the trunk?”

“He must, Peter. He must have been after the
Wasp
for that reason. He was fooled just as Father was. But now Father’s lost at sea somewhere, and the Black Moustache is coming for the trunk. He’s
coming,
Peter.”

“Mol y,” said Peter, “if
he
gets that trunk…”

“I know,” she said. “I know. Peter, we must stop him.” Peter nodded. She was right.

They had to stop him.

But how?

B
LACK STACHE CUPPED HIS HANDS and screamed through the rain toward the crow’s nest. “Anything?”

“Not yet, Cap’n!” returned the lookout from the top of the mainmast.

“Not much chance of seeing her in this swil , Cap’n!” shouted the helmsman, over the roar of the storm.

“She’s out there!” Stache shouted back. He rubbed the end of his spyglass on a wet bit of his jacket, but stil had no luck looking through the thing.

One by one, his crewmen were returning to the deck, having changed into British naval uniforms. Stache smiled at the look of it—cutthroat pirates, dressed as Her Majesty’s sailors.

Just then he caught sight of a porpoise off to starboard.
Good luck,
he thought.

“Strange to see a porpoise in a storm, don’t you think?” Stache shouted to his helmsman.

“Where, Cap’n?” the helmsman shouted.

Stache pointed. The helmsman gaped.

“Strange don’t begin to capture it,” he said. “Porpoise is too smart to get caught in a blow. Never seen nothin’ like it.”

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” It was Smee, now dressed in a British uniform that barely contained his bel y. He’d given up trying to button the pants, and as he held up the British flag—

the Union Jack—his pants sank to his knees, drawing laughs from the crew. Smee tried to pul up his pants, but in doing so almost lost the flag to the howling wind.

“Bring it here, you idjit!” Stache yel ed.

The distraction had taken his attention off the porpoise. He looked back, but it was gone. He felt a twist in his bel y—
That was my luck
—then forced the thought from his mind.

Smee staggered over and presented the Union Jack to Stache, his pants again dropping in the process.

“Hoist her high!” Stache ordered, handing the flag to a sailor. “And you, Smee, hoist your britches.” This drew another laugh from the crew, interrupted by a cry from the crow’s nest.

“SHIP HO!”

Rain stinging his eyes, Stache looked in the direction of the lookout’s gesturing arm. He couldn’t see it, not yet, in the swirling storm. But the direction was right, and he had a feeling about it.

The
Never Land
…

It had to be.

P
ETER HADN’T CLOSED HIS EYES ALL NIGHT. For one thing, the weather had steadily worsened; the ever-larger waves kept the
Never Land
in constant, sickening motion, and the groaning and creaking of the ship’s ancient timbers—much louder now—made sleep difficult.

But Peter couldn’t have slept anyway. Not when his mind was stil trying to absorb what Mol y had told him. The thoughts swirled in his head…fal ing stars, centaurs, a trunk with the power to change the world…It was an incredible tale.

But it’s not a tale. It’s all true.

When he’d returned to his tiny sleeping space, Peter had wanted to tel the other boys, or at least James. But he’d decided it would be best, for now, not to. For one thing, he doubted that they’d believe him. For another thing, he didn’t want to run the risk that one of the boys would spoil whatever plan he and Mol y came up with for the trunk.

That was the question: what
would
they do about the trunk? Peter and Mol y had just started to discuss it last night when they’d heard Mrs. Bumbrake clunking noisily down the ladder. Peter had barely managed to dart out of the room and hide on the lower ladder before Mrs. Bumbrake had reached the passageway. Mol y’s last whispered words to him, as she pressed the door shut, had been: “We must act soon. Find me in the morning.”

We must act soon.
Yes, certainly; if what Mol y had told him was true—and he believed her now, absolutely—they had to do something. But what? What could two children do on a ship ful of men?

So Peter’s night had been sleepless. At the first dim light of morning, he crept out of the boys’ cramped hole and made his way to the foredeck. The sky was a dul gray, and the wind was flicking foam off waves far bigger than any Peter had seen. He’d adjusted to the steady swel s of the open sea, but these waves were much more menacing; some of them, as they swept toward the
Never Land,
looked tal er than the masts. Fear tightened Peter’s chest, and he felt no better when he turned to the horizon astern; the sky there was black as night, a vast swirling darkness The deck of the
Never Land
had never been busier. Slank bel owed orders, and the usual y turtle-paced crew now scurried around urgently. Peter started aft and immediately encountered Alf, who was trotting forward, a barrel on his right shoulder. Seeing Peter, he glanced back to see if Slank was watching, then quickly set the barrel down and knelt next to the boy, as if scratching his foot.

“Ahoy, little friend,” he said. “Looks like you got out of there al right last night. Missy decided not to scream, eh?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “She didn’t…I mean, she was…” He trailed off, wanting to tel Alf more, tel him about the trunk, maybe enlist his help….

“Not now, little friend,” said Alf. “No time to talk. Big storm coming. Slank’s turned us around, but there’s no chance this tub wil outrun it.” He put his big hands on Peter’s bony shoulders, and looked into the boy’s eyes. “We’re in for a bad one, little friend. When it gets here, make sure you’re holding on tight to something.” Peter looked at the horizon. The blackness looked distinctly closer now. Alf was on his feet again, hoisting the barrel to his shoulder.

“Remember, little friend,” he said. “Hold on tight.” And he left.

Peter headed aft, unnoticed in the confusion of shouting, bustling crewmen. To his relief, he found Mol y immediately; she was standing on the aft deck, looking back at the approaching storm. He cal ed her name, and she turned. Peter’s heart fluttered when he saw in her eyes how glad she was to see him.

“Peter,” she said. “There’s a storm, a bad one. It’s…”

“I know,” he said. “Alf says it’s going to get us soon.”

“I fear he’s right,” she said, looking back at the horizon.

“What about the trunk?” Peter said.

Mol y looked around before answering, though in this wind there was no chance that anyone could overhear them.

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do now,” she said. “But as soon as the storm is over, we need to move it.”

“Move it where?” said Peter.

“I’m not sure,” Mol y said. “But we have to hide it somewhere else on the ship, so that when Black Stache catches us—
if
he catches us—it won’t be easily found. Perhaps we can trick him into thinking it’s been thrown overboard, or was never on the
Never Land
in the first place.”

“Why don’t we just throw it overboard ourselves?” said Peter. “He’d never get it, then.”

“No,
he
wouldn’t,” said Mol y. “But we’d have no control over who
would
find it. It would be terrible, Peter—you’ve no idea how terrible—if it were to fal into the wrong hands. Or tentacles.” She glanced into the dark water, and shuddered. “If we absolutely
must
throw it overboard—if there is no other way to keep it from Black Stache—then we shal . But for now, we must try to guard it, keep it safe, and hope that we can gain enough time until my father can get to us.”

“You’re sure your father’s coming?” Peter asked, and instantly regretted it, seeing the worry in Mol y’s eyes.

“Father wil come,” she said. “He
has
to.”

“Right,” said Peter. “So we move the trunk. But first…” He gestured at the approaching storm.

“Right,” said Mol y. “First we get through this.”

If
we get through this,
thought Peter.

“MOLLY ASTER! WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE!”

Peter and Mol y turned to see the formidable form of Mrs. Bumbrake, one hand on a rail, the other gripping an umbrel a.

“Mrs. Bumbrake!” Mol y said. “I was just…”

“AND WHAT IS HE DOING BACK HERE?” shouted Mrs. Bumbrake, attempting to point at Peter with her umbrel a hand, only to see a fierce wind gust grab the umbrel a and send it flying forward, darting this way and that like a giant disturbed bat, before narrowly missing a ducking sailor and hurtling overboard.

“MY UMBRELLA!” shrieked Mrs. Bumbrake. “WHAT ARE YOU TWO LAUGHING AT?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Bumbrake,” said Mol y, forcing her face to frown.

“Nothing, ma’am,” said Peter, hand over mouth.

“DON’T YOU MOCK ME, YOU LITTLE URCHIN,” said Mrs. Bumbrake. “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE BACK HERE, AND I INTEND TO TELL MR. SLANK. AND AS FOR

YOU, YOUNG LADY, I HAVE TOLD YOU A HUNDRED TIMES THAT…”

But Mrs. Bumbrake did not get her chance to tel Mol y for a hundred-and-first time. She was interrupted by a shout from the
Never Land’
s lookout, echoed by a chorus of shouts from the men on deck. A crowd of sailors joined Mol y, Peter, and Mrs. Bumbrake at the stern; they were looking and pointing at the cause of the lookout’s shout: an approaching ship, between the
Never Land
and the storm. The sailors babbled excitedly, speculating on its identity, then fel silent when Slank appeared on the aft deck, holding a spyglass.

Peter ducked behind a sailor, but Slank’s attention was focused on the fol owing ship. The men grew silent as Slank raised the glass to his eye and focused it. He grunted, lowered the glass, shook his head, blinked, then looked through the glass again. Final y, he spoke.

“I’l be hanged,” he said. “It’s the
Wasp.
”