Peter and the Starcatchers (3 page)

“Apiece,” said Mack.

“Al right, then,” said Alf, who was not one to ask questions when two bob was involved.

“Let’s tie her up, then,” said Mack. “You lift the end there, and I’l tuck this canvas underneath, and slip the rope ’round it.”

“Why don’t
you
lift the end?” said Alf.

“It’s me back, Alf,” complained Mack. “You know how it troubles me.”

“No more than mine troubles me,” said Alf.

“But I said it first,” said Mack.

Alf sighed. The longer they argued—and Alf knew, from experience, that Mack would argue this point a good long time—the less chance he’d have at some grog before they set sail.

“Al right, then,” Alf said, and he squatted to grab hold of the end of the trunk.

Alf was a simple man, of simple wants. What he hoped to get from life was food that was soft enough to chew, a place to sleep out of the rain, and some grog now and again.

Alf had never known true happiness, and he didn’t expect to.

And so he was not ready, not ready at al , for what happened when his rough, cal used hands touched the trunk.

First, he felt it: a warmth, starting in his hands but quickly moving up his arms and down his back and into his legs, and everywhere the warmth went it was …
wonderful.
Like stepping into a bath. In an instant the pain in his bent old spine, the throbbing pain that he’d lived with since almost his first day on the docks, was gone. So was the aching weariness in his legs. Gone!

But there was more: there was a …
smell.
It was flowers. New grass in a meadow right after a spring rain. A fresh orange being peeled. It was cinnamon and honey, and bread just baked and pul ed from the oven. And another smel even more wonderful than al the others, though Alf couldn’t place it.
Like nighttime,
he thought.

Alf could see light now, swirling around his head, colors and sparkles, moving to music, dancing to the sound of …
bells,
yes, it was bel s, tiny ones, by the sound of them, and it was a sweet and joyful sound, though Alf could hear something else in it, something that seemed to be trying to tel Alf something. He strained to hear it, he wanted to hear it….

“ALF!” said Mack, shaking Alf’s shoulder harder now, hard enough so that Alf let go of the trunk. And when he did, the wonderful smel s were gone, and so were the lights, and the bel s, and Alf could feel the weight come back into his body, his back and his arms and his legs, along with al the old aches and pains, and he felt himself settling, as though he’d been—but that was impossible—floating above the warehouse floor, just a little bit of an inch, but
floating.
He brushed off his hands, thinking someone had put rat poison on the outside of the trunk. He’d seen sailors go into a crazy dance from messing with rat poison.

“ALF!” said Mack again. “What’s wrong with you?”

Alf looked at Mack, then down at the trunk, then back at Mack. He put his fingers in both ears, looking sil y.

“I … when I touched it …” Alf said. “Didn’t you hear them?”

“Hear what?” said Mack.

“The bel s,” said Alf.

“What
bells?
” said Mack. “There weren’t no bel s.”

“Bel s,” said Alf. “And lights, and …” He stopped, seeing the way Mack was looking at him. “Rat poison!” he said, slapping his hands against his pants, trying to get them clean.

“You already been to the tavern today?” asked Mack suspiciously.

“Rat poison!” said Alf, now rubbing his hands on a dirty old towel. Mack was looking at him al funny. “Got to gets it off me hands.”

“Bel s?” Mack teased him, shaking his head. He turned back to the trunk. Alf saw that Mack had slipped the canvas more tightly around the trunk, and the rope around the canvas. A tiny bit of the trunk stil showed.

“Mack,” said Alf. “I dares ya to touch it.”

“What?” said Mack. “Me?”

“Just touch the trunk,” said Alf. “On the wood there.”

“I’m not messing with no rat poison! You remember what happened to Hungry Bob?” Mack considered himself a cautious man, and the truth was, he was afraid to touch the trunk now. He knew that something had happened when Alf touched it; somehow, he’d
felt
it. No, Mack had decided there was something strange about this trunk. Why else would Slank be giving special orders and offering two bob? Mack was not going to touch it, thank you very much.

“It’s not our job to fool with it,” Mack said, pul ing the rope tight. The canvas now covered the trunk entirely. “Slank said put it aboard the
Never Land,
and that’s that.”

“But, Mack,” said Alf. “I’m tel ing you, God’s truth, rat poison or not, it felt good. “

“Let’s just finish the job,” said Mack, pul ing the knot tight, “and take our two bob to the tavern, get our grog quick-like, and forget about this trunk.”

“Al right, then,” said Alf, though he didn’t think he would soon forget that feeling he’d just had. Maybe once the
Never Land
was under way he could sneak in and visit this trunk again.

Grunting, the two men lifted the canvas-wrapped trunk onto a handcart, and trundled it out of the warehouse, onto the wharf. A minute later they passed the
Wasp,
whose crew was preparing to cast off.

“She’s a pretty ship, ain’t she?” said Mack.

“What?” said Alf, who’d been thinking about the trunk.

“I say, the
Wasp
is a beauty,” said Mack. “I’d love to sail on her someday. They say she’s the only ship afloat that might outrun the
Sea Devil.
” The mention of the pirate ship won Alf’s ful attention. The
Sea Devil
was the ship of the most feared pirate on the Seven Seas. Sailors said that if you caught sight of the
Sea
Devil,
it was time to make your peace with your maker, because you’d be with Him within the hour.

“No ship can outrun the
Sea Devil,
” said Alf. “Nobody ever has.”

“Til now,” said Mack. “The
Wasp
was built for just that, and Captain Scott is as able a seaman as ever sailed these waters. Unlike the idjit in charge of
our
bilge bucket.” Sneering, Mack nodded toward the
Never Land,
now just ahead.

“Aye,” said Alf. “Pembridge could capsize a dinghy on dry land.”

Cyrus Pembridge, the
Never Land’
s captain, was widely regarded as the most incompetent man to command a ship since the formation of water.

“Who in the name of common sense would put to sea on that ship with that man in charge?” wondered Mack.

“Wel ,” Alf answered,
“we
are.”

“True,” Mack said. “But nobody else’d hire the likes of us.”

They were alongside the
Never Land
now. The ship had been loaded and provisioned; the crew was preparing to cast off. Most of the passengers were on deck. Some were looking around anxiously at the decrepit ship, and the scruffy crew in whose hands they were placing their lives. Others were leaning on the dockside rail, watching the cast-off preparations. Among these, Alf noticed, was a group of five boys near the bow. They looked plainly scared, except for one, a wiry boy with bright orange hair—not the largest of the lot, but the one who seemed to be in charge. He had an air about him, Alf thought, the look of a boy who doesn’t miss much.

“It’s about time,” said Slank, tramping down the gangplank, trailed by two more seamen. “You’re late. Tide’s begun to run.” To the men behind him, he said, “Get this cargo trunk aboard.”

As the men bent to heft the load, Alf—not thinking; not knowing why he did it—slipped his hand under the canvas flap, thrusting it forward until his fingers felt the smooth wood.

“Here now!” said Slank. “What the dickens are you doing?”

“Alf,” said Mack. “What
are
you doing?”

But Alf didn’t hear them. Instantly he was lost in it al again—the warmth, and the smel s, the music and the floating—and it was so good, especial y the sweet song. There was something else in there, too, something the bel s were saying, trying to tel him….
What was it?

“HANDS OFF THAT CARGO!” Slank yel ed. Alf felt himself yanked away from the trunk, and then the music was gone, and al the other good feelings with it. Alf was wobbly, but with Mack’s help he managed to keep his feet. Alf watched two men carry the trunk onto the ship, and he felt a sadness come over him, because he knew he might not hear the music again. He almost wept, except that a man like Alf didn’t cry.

Then—he didn’t know why—Alf looked toward the bow, and found himself looking right into the startlingly blue eyes of the orange-haired boy.

“Come on, Alf,” said Mack, gently tugging at Alf’s coat, concerned about his old friend’s strange behavior.

But for a moment Alf held stil , his gaze stil locked with that of the orange-haired boy.

“Come on” repeated Mack. “We’re casting off!” Alf turned and fol owed his friend toward the lines that held the ship to the wharf. After a few steps, he looked back, but the boy was gone.
Boys gets into all sorts of trouble,
he thought, his ears stil ringing from the music of those bel s.

P
ETER TROTTED AFT on the
Never Land’
s bustling deck, dodging the sailors making final preparations for casting off and getting under way. The forward gangway had been detached, hauled aboard, and stowed; now sailors were working on the aft gangway. When they were done, there would be no way off the ship.

Peter’s plan was to dart down the gangway just before they finished the job and disappear into the bustle on the wharf. He figured the ship’s departure wouldn’t be held up just for him, a mere one boy out of five.

He had no plan for what he’d do once he got off the ship; al he knew was, he didn’t want to stay on it. He’d seen enough of the
Never Land
to decide that it was an unpleasant, dirty place, run by unpleasant, dirty men. They were around him now, stinking of sweat, struggling with lines and sails as an officer shouted orders that consisted mostly of curses.
They
don’t seem like a happy group,
thought Peter.

He neared the aft gangway and stopped, looking for his chance to flee. Directly ahead, blocking his path, stood the first officer, Slank, supervising the gangway crew. Just beyond, two sailors were carrying the canvas-draped cargo that had been brought onto the ship at the last minute. Peter had watched the cargo’s arrival and the little drama that had played out on the wharf. He’d seen the sailor, the one with the big nose wart, reach under the canvas and touch something; he’d seen the look that had come over the man’s face.
He
looked so happy,
Peter thought.
Why did he look so happy?

Peter studied the mysterious cargo now being maneuvered into the aft hold. It didn’t look heavy; the sailors handled it fairly easily. Peter wondered what was inside.

He was distracted by a giggle, and turned to see a rare sight: a girl. He’d not seen many girls over the past few years; St. Norbert’s had had only one, the headmaster’s daughter, an unpleasant, sal ow-faced child who amused herself by dropping spiders onto the heads of boys passing beneath her third-floor window.