Peter and the Starcatchers (28 page)

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.”

B
LACK 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 fol owed 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 final y 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 fal en 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!” bel owed 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, stil 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’l be getting off this island now, Cap’n?” said Smee. “We’l 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 stil 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 stil 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’l learn that spears is no match for pirate steel.”

P
ETER, 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, fol owed by two other Mol usks.

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

Peter thought of Mol y, 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 al right, lad?” said Alf. “When you went overboard, we was so worried….”

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

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

“We’re al 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 wil 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 Mol usks 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, Mol usks 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’l 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 al right,” said Peter, putting his arms around the smal er 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 wal easily ten feet high and forty feet wide; Peter could see that the wal curved inward at each end, continuing into the fortress.

Like a cage,
Peter thought.

Fighting Prawn stopped next to this wal , and the little procession stopped with him. Now the rest of the Mol usks 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 Mol usk, the tribe listening in motionless silence. His speech dragged on for five minutes, then ten. When he stopped, one of the other Mol usk 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 Mol y 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 wal .

Suddenly, he jerked forward. There was something moving behind him, inside the wal ; 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 al he could see in the cracks between them was darkness.

But there was something in there.

Staring at the wal , Peter realized that the Mol usks 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 Mol usk 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 wel . I am sorry.”

Fighting Prawn grunt-clicked something. A dozen adult male Mol usks began moving forward. The boys shrank back against the log wal , 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 diagonal y into the bright-blue sky. James, Prentiss, and Thomas were clinging to Peter, who found he could not breathe.

“NO!” screamed Tubby Ted. “DON’T EAT ME! PLEASE!”

That brought a grim smile to Fighting Prawn’s face. “Eat you?” he said. “We’re not going to eat you.” Peter exhaled, then froze as Fighting Prawn spoke again.

“We’re going to feed you to Mister Grin.”