Peter and the Sword of Mercy (22 page)

From the shore, a cry went out: “All hands prepare to heave!”

This was followed by a similar command in the Mollusk language, which loosely translated to “Pull until you grunt like a warthog!”

Hook and Fighting Prawn, longtime enemies brought together for this effort, stood side by side on a tall rock overlooking the water. Surrounding the cove were Mollusks and pirates, working side by side but as wary of each other as their leaders were. The men had formed into groups and were gripping the ropes with callused hands, the same hands that had spent days rigging the massive network of pulleys.

“On three?” Hook asked Prawn. It was understood the pirates and Mollusk warriors would take orders only from their own leader.

“On one,” Prawn corrected, as this was the Mollusk system. Before Hook could protest, Fighting Prawn counted, “Three…two…
one.”
On “one,” both men raised their arms and shouted, in their separate languages, for their men to go to work. The men heaved; the slack ropes tightened; the palm trees bowed; the pulleys creaked and cried; the men grunted and dug their heels into the sand as if locked in a giant game of tug-o’-war.

For several excruciatingly long seconds, nothing happened. The only signs of the intense effort were concentric circles of ripples dancing around the taut ropes where they entered the water. The pulleys groaned. The ropes stretched. The workers gritted their teeth. Sweat poured from their straining bodies.

“It ain’t moving,” said Hook. “Your men need to pull harder.”

Fighting Prawn shot Hook a look, but said nothing.

And then: bubbles. Just a few at first, but soon the cove was boiling with them. The water became milky, clumps of seaweed mingling with clouds of sand. And then, slowly, the masts wobbled and began to rise. The main deck railing poked through the surface, and then came a great rushing sound as the ship’s deck appeared, water cascading off the sides.

There the ship seemed to waver, the dripping ropes trembling with the strain of holding the massive weight of the ship. One of the pulleys broke; pieces of it whistled over the ship and flew far out over the cove before splashing into the water. Two men—one pirate, one Mollusk—collapsed.

Urged on by Hook and Fighting Prawn, the other men kept heaving on their ropes, backing step by agonizing step away from the water, up the beach, toward the jungle. With each step more of the ship’s dripping hull appeared. Finally the hole in the hull was visible. Water gushed from it as it cleared the cove surface. Now they could patch it.

Fighting Prawn and Hook ordered the men to stop. The ropes were tied off to trees, and a cheer rang across the cove. And the men fell silent, as they got their first good look at the ship that had been mostly underwater for more than two decades.

It looked impossibly well-preserved. Yes, there was a bit of slime on the hull, and there were fish flopping on its deck. But except for the hole, the ship looked sound. It looked almost
new.
None of the wood had rotted, not even the smallest piece of a rail. More incredible: all of its rigging was still intact. Every pulley and rope. Only the sails were missing.

“That ain’t possible,” said Hook. “A ship can’t look like that after sitting on the bottom.”

“A ship can’t fly, either,” said Fighting Prawn.

Hook would never admit it, but the Mollusk chief had a point. The
De Vliegen
had once carried a huge quantity of starstuff, which had enabled it to fly across the ocean. The starstuff had fallen out, dumped into the island’s water supply. But clearly it had left the ship permanently changed.

“So she will sail again,” said Fighting Prawn. He read the name carved across the ship’s broad transom. “The
De Vliegen.”

“Yes, she will sail again,” said Hook. “And soon. But not as the
De Vliegen.”

Fighting Prawn raised a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s a pirate ship now,” said Hook. “Her name is the
Jolly Roger.”

From high above the cove, on the side of the steep mountain ridge that divided Mollusk Island, Cheeky O’Neal, Frederick DeWulf, Rufus Kelly, and Angus McPherson had watched the raising of the ship.

“They did it,” said DeWulf. “Didn’t think they could, but they did.”

O’Neal, his eyes on the ship, nodded.

“How long d’you think it’ll take them to repair it?” said Kelly.

“Shouldn’t take long,” said DeWulf. “Dripping wet, and she looks like she just came out of the yard. Look at that rigging! She appears to have been under maybe a day or two, discounting the slime that’s suggesting more like ten or twenty
years.
Any of you want to explain that to me?”

“There’s a lot on this island can’t be explained,” said Kelly.

“Looks like they’re already gettin’ started with the repairs,” said McPherson, pointing at the cove, where men, Mollusks and pirates alike, were climbing from canoes onto the ship. “Guess they really want us off this island.”

“What if they finish the repairs before we’re ready?” said Kelly. He addressed the question to O’Neal. All eyes were on the big man, waiting for an answer.

O’Neal continued staring at the ship for a few more seconds. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, determined rumble.

“It doesn’t matter what they want,” he said. “We stick to our plan.”

With a glare at the other three, he spat on the ground, turned, and started back up the ridge.

T
HE
L
AST
B
IT

D
USK HAD TURNED THE GLOOMY SKY
a darker shade of gray. Wendy knew night would come soon, blending sky and sea into blackness.

She peered ahead, feeling the familiar brief pang of anxiety until she caught sight of the next porpoise. How many had there been? Wendy had long since lost count. For what seemed like the thousandth time, she shifted her position on the tiny platform, trying to give her aching legs some relief.

She reckoned she had been standing for at least twelve hours. The porpoises had led her many miles south. The air was distinctly warmer now, though Wendy was hardly comfortable. Aside from being exhausted, she was hungry, having finished the last of her bread and cheese hours earlier. Her throat was parched; she thought often of her lost water bottle.

But what gnawed at her most, more than hunger or thirst, was worry. Three times the humming of the motor had dropped suddenly in pitch, and the beat of the ornithopter’s big wings had slowed. Each time Wendy quickly unscrewed the fuel-tank cap, opened the locket, and carefully poured in some more starstuff. Each time the motor hummed back to life.

But the last time this happened, the flow of starstuff had been barely a trickle. When Wendy had snapped the locket shut, she wasn’t sure there was anything at all left inside. She would find out soon enough.

The sky was much darker now. Wendy gently pushed the altitude lever, nosing the ornithopter down so she could fly closer to the sea. Her eyes were fixed on the porpoise currently guiding her. She could barely see its gray body. She wondered how she would follow the porpoises when darkness fell.

Wendy passed over the guide porpoise and, straining to see through the gloom, found the next one. With each passing minute the sky grew darker. She took the ornithopter lower, then lower still. She passed over her guide and anxiously searched the water. The darkness was almost total now. Where was the next porpoise?

Then she saw it: a strange greenish glow in the sea ahead. As she swooped closer, she realized that the glow was coming from the water itself. It formed an inverted “V,” created by the wake of the next porpoise, which itself was barely visible. When she passed over it, Wendy saw another ghostly “V” in the distance ahead. She didn’t understand why the water was glowing like this, but she was very grateful that it was.

She passed from “V” to “V,” each one an arrow pointing to the next. The motor hummed; the wings whooshed. Minutes became a half hour, which became an hour. Wendy’s legs ached; her eyes stung, peering ahead into the darkness.

And then the hum sank lower in pitch.

Wendy reached frantically to unscrew the fuel-tank cap. She was close to the water and could not afford to let the ornithopter descend much farther. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the locket, and held it over the fuel tank. With a silent prayer she flicked it open.

There was a momentary flash of golden light, raising Wendy’s hopes. But they fell immediately when the glow flickered and dimmed. Wendy shook the last bit of starstuff into the fuel tank. The engine resumed its high-pitched humming, but only for a few seconds.

Then it died.

Its wings having stopped, the ornithopter began to descend rapidly. Wendy pulled back hard on the altitude lever. The ornithopter swooped up a few feet, then stalled and went into a downward spiral. Wendy fought to control it, but the levers were useless. She was going into the ocean. She looked down in panic, but in the darkness could see nothing. She heard rushing water.

With the sound of cracking wood, the ornithopter slammed into the sea. Wendy felt a stab of pain as her head struck the ornithopter frame. Before she could hold her breath she was dragged under water. Dazed by the blow to her head, she took several seconds to understand that her coat was caught in the wreckage of the frame, which was being dragged down by the weight of the motor. She kicked furiously, blindly in the black water. She felt her coat rip and suddenly she was no longer going down. Lungs burning, she thrashed the water, struggling to swim to the surface, but not sure which way it was.

Then she felt pressure on both sides, and she began moving swiftly.
The porpoises.
A few seconds later, her head broke the surface. She gasped for breath, coughed up salt water, gasped some more. There were porpoises all around her; three were holding her up, using gentle pressure from their sleek bodies. Others swam close by, chittering and squeaking urgently.

Wendy tried to understand them, but she could not concentrate. She felt dazed; her head throbbed viciously. She reached up to touch her scalp and recoiled as her fingers found a deep gash. She felt blood trickling down her forehead, into her eyes.

She needed to find out where she was, where the island was. Whether she would live. She tried to concentrate, to remember her Porpoise vocabulary. Nothing came. She felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue. She struggled to keep her eyes open.

I can’t fall asleep,
she thought.
Not here. I can’t …

Her eyes closed; her body went limp. The porpoises repositioned themselves under her; others formed a protective ring around her. Then they began moving, taking the waves as gently as they could, painstakingly keeping Wendy afloat while her hand dragged lifelessly in the sea.