فصل 11

CHAPTER 11

THE UNSEEN ENEMY

WE SHOULD GO BACK, said Tinker Bell, for at least the two-dozenth time. There’s nobody out here.

“One more time around,” said Peter.

That’s what you said last time.

“This time I promise.”

Hmph.

“You can go back if you want,” said Peter, angling his body into a gentle turn, knowing that Tink would be right behind him. They were flying about five hundred feet above the sea in a sky unmarked by a single cloud. To Peter’s right the moon shone brightly, twice—once in the sky and once reflected below in the warm and placid water.

Peter and Tink had been out for more than two hours, patrolling in widening circles, gradually increasing their distance from Mollusk Island, which rose sharply from the sea about twenty-five miles off to Peter’s left. They had seen nothing, and Peter knew he would have to return to the island soon, before dawn revealed his absence from the Mollusk village. He would be glad to reach land again; his neck was aching from keeping his head up while scouring the horizon for…

Boats!

Tink’s warning chime startled Peter, causing him to swerve and almost tumble head over heels in the sky.

“Where?” he asked, regaining his balance.

That way.

Peter looked in the direction indicated by Tink’s tiny pointing finger—almost straight ahead but slightly to the right. He saw nothing, but that didn’t surprise him; Tink could see like a hawk. He altered his course slightly and increased his speed.

Why are you going toward them? Shouldn’t we go back and tell the Mollusks?

“We need to find out how many there are.”

Many, said Tink.

Peter, wanting a more accurate count, kept flying toward the horizon. In a few minutes he could make out a few dark shapes on the water, then more, then more…

And then Peter felt a hollowness in his stomach as, suddenly, the whole sea ahead seemed to be covered with long, low war canoes. They were manned by teams of paddlers who sent the sleek craft surging through the water, each hull creating a ghostly moonlit wake of dozens and dozens—perhaps hundreds—of white smudge lines on the dark sea.

Now can we leave?

“In a minute,” said Peter, determined to bring back a good estimate of the size of the Scorpion war party. “Just a little closer.” He dropped lower, thinking that if he stayed close to the sea he would avoid detection. What he did not realize was that by reducing his altitude he was not only getting closer to the canoes, but he was also silhouetting himself against the brilliant moon.

Closer he flew, closer…

Look out!

Peter heard the warning an instant before he heard the sound, a hiss of air as something shot past him no more than five feet away.

An arrow.

Look out!

This time there were three hisses, one of them so close, Peter felt the air move as it went past. He banked hard to his right and flew straight up in an evasive corkscrew pattern, praying that he was not flying into the path of one of the arrows—there were many now—hissing into the sky, hunting him like invisible airborne snakes.

Altitude was the key, he knew; if he could get high enough, they couldn’t—

LOOK OUT!

Peter felt it on the outside of his right thigh just above the knee, a sharp pain like a bee sting. He looked down, fearing he would see an arrow in his flesh. His fear turned to relief when he saw that the arrow had merely grazed him. He was bleeding, but it wasn’t a serious wound, just a scrape…

“Uhh!”

Peter grunted as the muscles in his right leg suddenly contracted in violent cramps, which almost immediately spread to the rest of his body. He doubled over in excruciating pain, and, unable to control his flight, began to tumble from the sky.

Peter! Peter!

He could hear Tink shouting as she flitted around him, but he couldn’t answer her, couldn’t do anything except moan in agony as he tumbled through the air while waves of cramps racked his body. It was the poison, he knew. The arrow had barely scraped him, but still the pain was almost unendurable. Fighting Prawn had warned him. He had not heeded. And now…

Peter!

With great effort, Peter fought to straighten his body; he could see the water now, no more than fifty feet below him and getting closer. Somehow he managed to stop tumbling and slow his descent. With the sea just a few feet away, he began to fly forward, wobbling badly but at least no longer losing altitude.

You’re going toward the boats!

Peter veered left, then left again, reversing course in an ugly erratic turn, his legs brushing the water.

“Which way?” he gasped, struggling to regain a few feet of altitude.

This way.

Tink flitted ahead, flashing brightly so Peter could follow.

Can you go higher?

“No.”

Grimly, Peter focused on following the tiny streaking light ahead, trying to ignore the agonizing pain in his muscles and the water just below him. He tried not to think about how far they were from the island. Too far, he knew, as his toes brushed the sea. He would not be able to stay aloft for all those miles.

“Tink,” he gasped, “I can’t keep flying.”

Yes you can. You must.

“I can’t.”

Can you see the island?

With painful effort, Peter raised his head and saw the steep volcanic cone of Mollusk Island. It was directly in front of him—but still much too far away. He would not make it.

“I see it, but—”

Keep flying toward it. Don’t stop flying!

“I don’t think—”

But he was talking to no one. Tink was gone, a tiny darting light now far ahead, leaving him alone just a few feet over the dark water.

Peter gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep going, trying to ignore the throbbing that convulsed his entire body. He flew for five minutes, ten, fifteen, raising his head every minute or so to check his course. He was getting closer, but he knew he would not make it to the island in his pain-weakened state.

Time and again his feet, then his shins, touched the water. Finally, he could fly no more. As he settled into the sea, he felt the warm water cover the length of his body, swallowing him; as it reached his neck, he made a few feeble attempts to swim, but his pain and fatigue were too great. He slipped beneath the surface and started to sink, staring up at the water turned golden green by the bright moon, which wobbled above him, growing dimmer as he descended into the depths, almost grateful that the pain would soon be gone.

But it did not go. In fact, it got worse, and Peter, barely conscious now, sensed that this was because he was moving…upward. He felt himself burst through the surface, coughing water and gulping sweet salt air into his burning lungs. Tink was zipping about his head, asking over and over if he was all right, but he could not speak, only cough and gasp, cough and gasp…and wonder what had brought him up?

Then he felt the tightness around his chest and looked down to see a pair of strong, pale arms around him, hands interlocked in front. Then he heard a familiar voice—not with his ears but in his mind—say his name, and he knew who his rescuer was.

Teacher, he said, not aloud but with his mind.

Yes, answered the mermaid.

Thank you, he said.

Don’t thank me, said Teacher. Thank Tink.

That’s right, said Tink, who had never been happy about the mermaid’s obvious fondness for Peter.

“Thanks, Tink,” Peter gasped.

Propelled by graceful thrusts of Teacher’s powerful tail, Peter shot through the water. Within a half hour he was stumbling ashore on Mollusk Island. He collapsed on hands and knees in the sand, catching his breath. Then, despite the pain that still racked his body, he stood up, intending to get to the Mollusk village as quickly as he could. Head down, he stumbled forward a few feet, and then with a moan, fell…into the strong arms of Fighting Prawn. The Mollusk chief had just trotted out of the jungle, followed by two warriors.

“Lie down,” said Fighting Prawn, setting Peter gently onto the soft sand.

“How did you know—” Peter began.

“Your bright little friend,” said Fighting Prawn, pointing to Tink, who glowed radiantly. “She sent the mermaids around to fetch us.”

“Out there,” Peter said, pointing toward the sea. “Canoes. They shot me with an arrow. There were—”

“In a moment,” said Fighting Prawn. “First let me see your wound.”

By the bright moonlight, Fighting Prawn examined Peter’s thigh. There was a thin, straight red line in the skin, apparently caused by the side of the passing arrowhead; the flesh around it was swollen and purple.

Fighting Prawn frowned, then grunted something to the warriors, one of whom turned and sprinted into the jungle.

“He will bring the medicine woman,” Fighting Prawn said to Peter. “You will do what she says and swallow what she tells you to swallow, no matter how bad it tastes.”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“You are very fortunate, Peter. Had the arrow pierced you directly, you would be dead now. To be honest, you should be anyway; very few people survive any dose of Scorpion poison.”

Peter hung his head.

“I shouldn’t have gone out there,” he said.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” agreed Fighting Prawn. “But since you did, tell me what you saw.”

“Canoes,” Peter said. “More than a hundred of them.”

“Which direction, and how far out?”

“That way,” said Peter, pointing. “They’re probably about twenty miles away by now.”

“They will be here at dawn,” said Fighting Prawn. He stood and looked out to sea. “You did well, disobeying me,” he said. “I expected them to come from the west, but they circled around, intending to surprise us. They won’t surprise us now. Though in the end I don’t know how much difference it will make.”

Peter looked up, surprised; he had never heard Fighting Prawn sound so uncertain.

The Mollusk chief turned to the remaining warrior and, with the tone of confident command back in his voice, grunt-clicked an order. Then he turned back to Peter.

“He will stay with you until the medicine woman gets here,” he said. “I must go and redeploy the warriors. We must prepare to defend our island.”

He turned and ran back into the jungle, leaving Peter and Tink with the warrior on the beach, all three of them looking out to sea toward the unseen enemy coming toward them.