بخش 03

CHAPTER 4

THE VOICE

CAPTAIN NEREZZA ADDRESSED the man peering through the spyglass.

“Well, Mister Slank?” he said. “Is that your island?” Slank put the glass down. He was a tall, sturdy man with big, rough hands and shaggy hair that, like Nerezza’s, was held back in a ponytail. His face, in its own way, was as shocking as Nerezza’s: though he still had his original nose, Slank’s skin had been badly damaged by more than a month drifting at sea in an open boat. The relentless sun had burned his skin into a hideous mask of angry blisters and scabs through which could barely be discerned the features of a man.

“Aye,” he said, his voice harsh, as if his throat was still parched. “As sure as I’m standing here, that’s the island, Captain. The single cone of a mountain is what tells it, and the shape. That’s the one, all right.”

It was then they felt the chill. Every man on the ship had felt it; every man dreaded the sound of the voice that was sure to accompany the chill. The tropical sun still hung bright in the sky, but it was as though the air around the ship had gone cold and dank, like in a dark London alley near the docks in December. There was a smell, too—a faint but distinct odor of decay.

The sailors—trying to look casual about it, but clearly terrified—moved forward, away from the quarterdeck; one of them crossed himself. The man at the wheel, who could not leave his post without being flogged, went rigid and pale, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Nerezza and Slank also stiffened, neither daring to turn toward the companionway behind them, the companionway that led down to the officers’ cabins.

The crew had been ordered to keep away from that companionway, but no orders were necessary. No sailor on the ship would go down there, not for a year’s pay. Not with the rumors that had been scurrying around the ship since the…visitor had boarded the ship, at sea, in the dead of night, under very strange circumstances.

For openers, there was the matter of how he had arrived. It happened a few minutes into the middle watch, just past midnight. Only Nerezza and Slank were on deck. Nerezza, taking the wheel himself, had ordered the entire crew, every last man, to go below and close all hatches behind them—something that never happened aboard a ship at sea.

The crew, needless to say, had been intensely curious about what was happening on deck, and as it happened there was a witness: the youngest cabin boy, a slight, mischievous towheaded lad named Michael Doakes, nimble as a squirrel in the rigging. Rather than going below, Doakes had concealed himself aloft, lying on a furled sail, from which he had an excellent view of the moonlit deck.

The story that Doakes—a subdued and shaken Doakes—told belowdecks later was so strange that some of the crewmen were convinced he must have gone mad, or gotten into the grog. For the boy claimed that a man—or something—had come on board, and yet…no ship had brought him.

“I swear it!” he said, responding to the doubting looks of the men gathered around him. “There was no ship in the water.”

“Then how’d he get here?” asked a skeptical voice. “We’re five hundred miles from land.”

“I…I don’t know what it was,” said the boy, his normally ruddy face gone pale and sickly. “I thought I saw a…a…”

“A what, boy?”

“A shape in the water. Big as our ship, but it weren’t no ship. It came alongside, and then I thought I saw an…an arm come aboard….”

“An arm?”

“Yes, a great huge arm, like a snake….”

“You’re mad, boy!”

“Hush! Let him talk! Then what, boy?”

“Then the arm was gone,” said Doakes. “And the shape was gone. And there was this thing, or man, or whatever it is, standing there on deck.”

“What’d he look like?”

“I couldn’t say. It…he was all dark, like he was wearing a cloak, head to toe. When I looked at him, all I seen was black, just black. He walked across the deck. It was strange, the way he moved—like he was gliding, on wheels. Anyways, he went up on the quarterdeck, and he said something to Cap’n Nerezza and Mister Slank.”

“What’d he say?”

“I couldn’t get the words, but the sound of it was strange, like wind moaning in the rigging. It gave me the strangest feeling, like I was cold all of a sudden. I could tell Cap’n Nerezza and Mister Slank didn’t care for it, neither. They was backing up away from the man, and turning away, like they was afraid to look at him.”

“Nerezza?” said an incredulous voice. “Afraid?”

“That’s what it looked like,” said the boy.

“Then what?”

“Then the man went down the companionway, quick as anything—it was like he flowed down, like water down a drain. And then he was gone.”

Doakes’s account of the strange visitor was instantly the talk of the ship. Most of the crew believed the boy, but there were a few doubters—for a while. Their doubts vanished the first time the chill descended over the ship. It had done so several times since, and each time, it was followed by the dreaded voice.

Nerezza and Slank, standing on the quarterdeck, heard that same voice now, a cross between a hiss and a moan, emanating like a winter wind from the companionway behind them.

“You found the island,” the voice said.

Nerezza and Slank looked at each other, then Nerezza answered.

“Yes,” he said.

“You are certain, Slank?” the voice said.

Slank flinched, then said quietly, “I’m certain.”

A pause; neither Nerezza nor Slank moved. Then the voice spoke again.

“You had better be right, Slank,” it said. “You had better not fail us again.”

Slank said nothing, still staring at the island. He had, indeed, failed; had somehow, incredibly, let the most valuable trunk on earth—the most valuable thing on earth—slip through his fingers, because of some mindless mermaids and a…a boy. Defeated, humiliated, he’d barely escaped the island with his life; he’d spent weeks at sea, drifting on a tiny boat with Little Richard, his huge and loyal servant, whom he had ultimately, with some regret, been forced to kill and eat so he could stay alive. Because he had to stay alive, if only for revenge.

And stay alive he had, long enough to be picked up by a trading ship, and finally make it back to Rundoon, where he’d had to report his failure to King Zarboff. Zarboff, enraged by the loss of the trunk and its priceless cargo of starstuff, had wanted to feed Slank to the giant snake he kept as a pet. But Zarboff was only a king; he was subordinate to higher-ranking members of the Others, the secret group that for centuries had controlled much of the world through the powers they gained from starstuff. They knew they needed Slank alive, to lead them back to the island, and the trunk. For the time being, Zarboff’s snake went hungry.

And so Slank had found himself hastily put aboard this ship—called Le Fantome—commanded by the brutal Captain Nerezza, a man often employed by the Others, a man known for getting things done by whatever means necessary. Le Fantome had spent weeks—too many weeks—wandering the sea, searching for an island that didn’t seem to be on any of the charts; an island that, Slank suspected, Nerezza sometimes did not believe existed.

The recent midnight arrival of the mysterious visitor had increased the urgency of the search. Clearly, the Others were growing impatient in their desire to get the trunk back.

So Slank was relieved and pleased to see the island. Relieved, because it meant that he might yet escape from this debacle with his life. And pleased because the boy would be on the island.

He meant to kill the boy. The thought brought a rare and painful smile to his face, his badly worn teeth showing briefly amid the mass of sunburn scars.

Slank turned to Nerezza. “There’s a decent anchorage off the eastern side,” he said.

Nerezza nodded.

Then the voice again, behind them: “How long?”

Nerezza considered, squinting at the island. “About two hours,” he said. “We can be ashore before sunset.”

“No,” groaned the voice, a sound that caused skin to crawl throughout Le Fantome. “Not before nightfall. It must be at night, do you understand?”

Nerezza, too shaken to speak, nodded.

“At night,” the voice repeated.

And despite the heat of the day, Slank’s teeth began to chatter. CHAPTER 5

THE AGREEMENT

PETER, WITH TINKER BELL CLOSE BEHIND, swooped low, his belly just brushing the jungle treetops as he zoomed toward the pirate camp. He cradled the mango in his left hand and changed direction quickly, in case Hook shot at him again.

At first the shooting had scared him, but he’d quickly learned that he could evade it easily enough if he changed direction when he saw Hook’s trigger finger twitch. Peter’s eyesight was very, very sharp—far sharper than that of the other boys, or for that matter, anybody else on the island. It was one of the changes—like the ability to fly—that had come over him since he’d been exposed to the mysterious material called “starstuff.” As he discovered his new abilities, he’d become increasingly convinced of his superiority to others, and his invulnerability. He no longer feared Hook’s pistol. In fact, he almost enjoyed being shot at.

With the clearing just ahead, Peter shifted the mango into his right hand, his throwing hand.

Now over the clearing, he looked down and found himself staring straight into the eyes of Captain Hook, who stood out in the open.

He was expecting me.

Peter raised the mango, anticipating Hook might flinch, or even run toward the fort. But Hook didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink. He just stood there staring right back at Peter. In place of the pirate’s usual hate-filled look, Peter saw an expression of disconcerting calm—almost amusement. Surprised by this change in the man, Peter forgot to throw the mango.

Instead, he flew across the clearing, banked into a rising turn, and settled into a high, slow-spinning hover, like a hummingbird, from which to assess the situation. He searched for signs of an ambush—pirates in the trees, perhaps, armed with pistols or spears—but saw nothing. A few pirates lounged against the wall of the fort; a few others rested by the spring at the side of the clearing, where the pirates got their drinking water. But there was no apparent threat; only Hook and his bumbling first mate, Smee, with Hook still watching Peter calmly, as though Peter were a mildly interesting bird, instead of his blood enemy.

Odd.

Peter decided to try to goad the pirate into reacting.

“Greetings, Dark Whiskers!” he shouted. “No, sorry, that’s not your name, is it? Mister Stache? No, no, my apologies. It’s Captain Hook, isn’t it?”

This outburst brought muffled giggles from some of the pirates. Peter was certain this nickname must be infuriating to Hook, but the pirate’s expression remained irritatingly calm.

“Greetings, boy,” the pirate responded. “How are you and your little…insect?’

Enraged, discordant bells arose from Tink. The pirates laughed out loud this time.

Frustrated, Peter descended toward the clearing, displaying the mango.

“I brought you some lunch, Captain Hook,” he said. “You didn’t seem to enjoy the coconut yesterday. So how about a nice juicy mango?”

He raised the mango. Smee stepped away from Hook. Hook stood statue-still.

Not like him at all.

Bells chimed in his ear.

“Trap?” said Peter. “He can’t trap us, Tink, not as long as we stay up here and he’s stuck down there.”

More bells.

“You worry too much,” said Peter. “Watch this.” He raised the mango over his head. “Enjoy!” he shouted, letting it fly.

His aim was perfect; right at Hook’s head. Smee raised his hands defensively, but Hook held motionless, watching the fruit sphere hurtling toward him until…

WHOOSH!

A lightning movement. A flash of steel. And there stood Hook, his left arm held high, the mango impaled on his hook. A bit of its juice dribbled down the blade. Hook brought it down to his mouth, licked it daintily, then looked back at Peter and smiled.

“Thank you, boy,” he said. “Delicious.”

This was not what Peter had expected. Now he was becoming quite irritated.

“Then perhaps you’d like some more, Captain Hook,” he said.

“That would be lovely, boy,” sneered Hook, peeling back the skin and nibbling at the fruit.

“All right, then,” said Peter, through gritted teeth. Ignoring Tinker Bell’s warnings, he darted toward a clump of palms beyond the clearing and picked two large coconuts.

Let’s see him catch these, he thought, swooping back.

“Ahoy, Hook!” he shouted. “Here’s your second course!”

Peter noted with satisfaction that when Hook saw the coconuts, a trace of alarm crept across his face.

That’s better, he thought. He angled his body upward, then arced into a steep dive directly at the pirate. Closer…closer…he raised his arm…

A scream from the direction of the mountain.

A boy’s scream.

Peter whirled and swooped upward, listening, looking.

Another scream, then: “PETER! HELP!”

Peter looked at Tinker Bell’s horrified face, saw that she, too, recognized the voice.

James.

Dropping the coconuts, Peter, with Tink at his side, shot toward the mountain, his eyes frantically scanning the jungle growth below him, his ears straining to hear. But the dense vegetation prevented him from seeing beneath the tree canopy, and he heard no more shouts or screams.

Time slowed to a crawl as Peter and Tink zigzagged frantically back and forth across the mountainside, calling for James, getting no response. Finally one of his passes took him near the pirate clearing. Hook stood exactly where he had been. He was smiling and still eating. Mango juice dribbled from his moustache.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Hook called. “Missing something? Or should I say, some body?”

Hook laughed a very unpleasant laugh, a laugh that told Peter exactly why Hook had stood in the clearing, taunting him, daring him to attack.

He was distracting me.

Peter’s stomach felt hollow.

“Where is he?” he shouted, flying closer.

“Your little friend?” asked Hook. “The one who can’t fly? Oh, don’t worry. We’ll take care of him.” The pirate raised the mango—still impaled on his hook—and took another delicate bite.

“Let him go!” said Peter. “He’s done nothing to you!”

“That’s true,” said Hook. “He has done nothing. It’s a shame that he should be the one to suffer.” Another bite.

Peter, hovering almost directly over Hook now, stared down at the pirate.

“What do you want?” the boy asked softly.

Hook glanced up at him, and Peter saw it now, the hatred the pirate had been holding inside.

“Why,” said Hook, “I want you, of course.”

“Me for James,” said Peter, very softly.

“That’s right, boy,” said Hook. “A trade: you for James.”

A minute passed, Peter hovering, Hook watching. Peter finally broke the silence.

“Where is he?” said Peter.

“Your little friend?” said Hook. “He’s unharmed, I assure you. For now.”

Peter thought some more.

“You can’t have me until I see you let him go, see that he’s safe,” he said. “I need to see him in the hands of Mollusks. Then you get me.”

Now it was Hook’s turn to ponder.

“Very well,” he said. “Come back to the clearing tonight, one hour past moonrise. You may bring two savages.”

“Ten,” said Peter. “Otherwise your men can—”

“SILENCE, BOY,” thundered Hook. “If you want your young friend to live, you will bring no more than two savages with you. My men will be inside the fort, watching. I shall meet you there”—he pointed—“by the spring. I will be holding your friend. You will place yourself within my reach. I will grab you, and at the same time release your friend.”

In response to Peter’s doubting look, Hook said: “Think about it, boy! I’ll have to let go of him, won’t I? I have just the one hand, thanks to you.”

Peter nodded. Hook went on: “Once your friend is free, the savages can take him and melt into the jungle, as they do so well. If I fail to release your friend, your savages can spear me, yes? And if you fail to return here at the proper time, or you arrive with more than two savages, or you try any other tricks, then your friend…”

Hook quickly raised his hook, flipping the half-eaten mango into the air. As it came down…WHOOSH…the hook flashed and the mango fell to the ground, sliced cleanly through the middle into two equal-sized pieces. Even the big seed in the middle was perfectly halved.

Hook tilted his head and addressed Peter. “Understand, boy?” he said. “This is no game.”

Peter nodded.

“Good,” said Hook. “Be back here an hour past moonrise. Don’t forget, boy.”

“I won’t forget,” said Peter.

“Good boy,” said the captain. He held up his hook, turning it so that it flashed sunlight into Peter’s eyes. “I’ll be waiting.”

Peter shielded his eyes, turned in midair, and was gone, swooping straight up the curve of the mountain, all the while getting a nonstop I-told-you-so earful from Tinker Bell.

In the clearing there was silence, finally broken by Smee.

“Cap’n, d’you think he’ll come back?”

“Of course he’ll come back,” said Hook. “The fool boy thinks he’s a hero. He’ll do what he must to save his little friend.”

“Ah, so you’ll let the other one go?” said Smee, relieved.

Hook barked out an ugly laugh.

“Smee,” he said, “you are a supreme idjit.”