بخش 09

CHAPTER 40

CAPTURED

JAMES STARED, FEAR-FROZEN, at the feet in front of his face. They were like no feet he’d ever seen before: sun-bronzed, callused, with long, curling yellow toenails. Not Alf’s feet. Not pirate feet, either.

Savages.

For several eternal seconds, James kept his eyes on the feet, too terrified to lift his head and look at their owners. His body was rigid with terror as he waited for the savages to do something horrible to him—bash his head with clubs, or stab him with spears, or…

…or tap him on the shoulder.

James flinched violently when the finger touched him. From above, he heard chortling.

They’re laughing.

Slowly, James raised his head, taking in two pairs of sturdy brown legs, leading up to two filthy loincloths made of some kind of woven fiber; then two muscular torsos, and, finally, the faces of his captors.

They were young men, in their mid-twenties, one slightly taller than the other. Their faces, framed by shoulder-length jet-black hair, were enough alike that the men could have been brothers: both had high cheekbones, jutting angular noses, and dark, deep-set eyes.

They did, in fact, have spears—dark wooden shafts topped with bright-pink tips, apparently fashioned from sharpened shells. But they held the spears upright, and their bemused expressions told James that they weren’t planning to stab him.

Not right now, anyway.

For a moment James regarded the savages, and they him. Then the taller one made a lifting gesture with his nonspear hand, which James understood to mean that he was to stand. Legs trembling, he stood. Immediately, the shorter man turned and slipped into the jungle. The taller one gestured that James was to follow his companion. James stumbled forward, trying to keep up with the shorter man, who seemed to move effortlessly through the thick vegetation. The taller man followed close behind James, occasionally prodding him with a finger when they fell too far behind.

They walked in silence, not stopping, for maybe fifteen minutes; James couldn’t tell how the savages knew where they were going, but clearly they did, because suddenly they came to a large clearing, roughly circular, easily two hundred feet across. In the center of the clearing was a cluster of enormous trees, unlike any James had seen. Their stout branches, extending outward horizontally, were supported by thick, rootlike shoots that reached down to the ground, forming a labyrinth of columns that surrounded the massive main tree trunks.

James could see people moving around in the shadowy interior of the tree fortress; there appeared to be dozens of them, dark-haired and brown-skinned like his captors, men and women, some of them children. They were speaking, but in a strange language that consisted mostly of guttural sounds and a strange clicking noise.

As James neared the trees, his attention was drawn to a place at the far end of the clearing. There a half dozen men holding spears were loosely gathered around a small group of people seated on the ground.

One large person, and three small ones.

Alf and the boys.

James’s knees went weak with relief. Prodded, unnecessarily, by the savage behind him, he stumbled toward his mates, who turned toward him as he approached. He saw worry on Alf’s face, and fear on those of Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted. James, suddenly aware of his exhaustion, plopped down next to Prentiss.

The two savages who’d captured him exchanged a rapid series of odd sounds with the others in the circle. Then they fell silent, watching the captives, expressionless.

Alf glanced up at the men, then turned to James. “You all right, lad?” he whispered.

“Yes, sir,” said James. He turned to the other boys. “You all right?”

“I’m sc—scared,” said Prentiss, his voice shaking. “When you left to look for Ted, they c—came out of nowhere, and th—they…”

He stopped, his shoulders shaking with sobs. James put his arm around Prentiss and said, “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

“Oh, right,” sneered Tubby Ted. “We’ll be just fine.”

James shot Tubby Ted a be-quiet look, but Ted wasn’t finished.

“You got us into this,” he said. “You said we should go into this stupid jungle. And now look where you’ve got us. Captured by savages. Thanks to you we’ll be killed and eaten.”

Now Prentiss and Thomas were both sobbing.

“Ted,” said James, his voice low but furious, “if you keep that up, I’ll kill you myself, you understand? We don’t know what they plan to do. So far they haven’t done anything to us. They may be friendly. Right, Alf?”

The boys looked at Alf.

“Erm…right,” said Alf, not at all believably. “They could be very friendly.”

“Then why did they capture us?” whispered Prentiss. “Why are they watching us like this? What are they going to do?”

“I dunno,” said Alf. “But I aim to talk to them.”

“But how, sir?” said James. “They make those…those noises.”

“I know,” said Alf. “But I’ve heard some tales in my time about how you talk to a savage. The trick is, keep it simple.”

“What do you mean?” said James.

“Watch,” said Alf. Slowly, he got to his feet; the savages shifted a bit, getting closer to him, but not stopping him. Alf faced the savage closest to him, an older man, perhaps in his forties. Solemnly, Alf raised his right hand, palm out.

“How,” he said.

The savage studied Alf for a moment, then turned and grunt-clicked something to his comrades, who laughed. Then the savage turned back to Alf, and, transferring his spear to his left hand, raised his right hand, and said: “How.”

Alf looked quite surprised.

“Now, what?” whispered James.

“I dunno,” said Alf. He hadn’t really planned it out. His mind raced frantically, but nothing came. Finally he decided to stick with what had been working so far. He raised his palm again.

“How,” he said.

This elicited more grunts and clicks from the older savage to his co-savages, who responded with more laughter. The older savage then turned to Alf again, and again raised his hand and uttered another solemn “How.”

Alf pondered his next move. On the one hand, the savages seemed to be responding reasonably well to “How.” On the other hand, they really weren’t making much progress.

At least they’re not eating us, he thought.

Ten seconds went by, then twenty, as Alf looked at the older savage, and the older savage looked at Alf. Finally, out of sheer nervousness, and unable to think of what else to do, Alf raised his right hand again. But this time, just as Alf began to speak, the savage rotated his spear from the vertical to the horizontal, pointing it toward Alf’s chest. Alf stopped in mid “How,” staring at the sharp pink spear tip, inches from his heart.

And then the savage spoke.

Poking his spear tip against Alf’s chest, he said: “Can we move this conversation along, old chap? I’m getting frightfully tired of ‘How.’” CHAPTER 41

“WE’LL THINK OF SOMETHING”

PETER WAS BARELY BREATHING NOW. He was right behind Molly, the two of them moving slowly, slowly, through a thicket of vines, placing each footstep with excruciating care, lest they break a fallen branch and give themselves away.

They were very near the voices, which were coming from a clearing just ahead. Mostly it was the strange grunts and clicks, but twice there had been another low, distinct voice, and both times Molly had turned back and mouthed the name: Alf.

Now Molly stopped. She’d reached the edge of the thicket, and was carefully pushing some vines aside, making a slit to see through. Peter moved close, looking over her shoulder, careful not to touch her, but very aware of the fact that he liked the way her neck smelled.

As the vines parted, Peter’s attention was drawn from Molly’s neck to the clearing, which was dominated by a huge tree—actually, a group of trees—in the center, protected by a thicket of odd vertical polelike growths descending from the branches. Moving among these poles were brown-skinned, black-haired people—the men wearing only loincloths, the women in slightly more modest loose shifts, the smaller children happily naked.

“Peter,” whispered Molly, nodding toward the right. “Look.”

Peter looked, and his heart jumped. There, perhaps fifty feet away, a half dozen spear-wielding men were surrounding his mates—James, Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted. Alf was there, too, but the big man was standing, holding his right hand up, speaking to the oldest-looking of the men. Whatever he said, it apparently was the wrong thing, because suddenly the savage was pointing his spear directly at Alf’s chest.

“He’s going to kill Alf!” whispered Peter. “We’ve got to stop him!”

“How?” said Molly.

“I don’t know,” said Peter, moving toward the right, keeping just outside the clearing. “We’ll think of something.”

We’d better think of something. CHAPTER 42

“IT’S HERE”

LITTLE RICHARD SLIPPED INTO THE WAVES without a splash, a difficult job for a man so big, and dragged the dory ashore alongside Stache’s longboat.

Slank, a sword and two pistols stuck into his belt, waited for the boat to hit sand, and then hopped out into the shallow water. He strode to the sand, knelt on one knee, and studied the pattern of prints in the sand.

“Two . . . maybe four, children. Black Stache and his men behind them.” He pointed out the thick groove in the sand. “Somebody was dragging something heavy.”

“The treasure?” said Little Richard.

“The treasure ain’t heavy,” said Slank. “And it floated, don’t forget.”

“But if not the treasure…”

“Wreckage from the Never Land, I’d venture to guess. Dunno why they’d be dragging it up the beach.” He looked up toward the jungle, and Little Richard followed his gaze.

“We’re going in there?” he asked.

“A big ape like you…afraid?” said Slank.

“Spiders,” said Little Richard, sheepishly. “I hates ’em.”

“I reckon there’s spiders in there big as your fist,” teased Slank. “Hairy spiders. Spiders that need a shave.”

Little Richard shuddered, then saw something in the sand. “Look here!” he said.

Slank came over to see what Little Richard was pointing to. It was an indentation in the moist sand, with parallel bands running left to right. Between the bands was a pattern of wood grain.

“Water barrel,” Slank said. “Whoever was dragging it stopped to rest here. Mr. Black Stache might be a fearsome pirate, but he’s not much of a tracker, is he? He’s chasing a water barrel.” Slank barked out a laugh.

“What’s more,” he continued, “the fool’s left his longboat unguarded. We’ll tow it around that point”—he indicated a curving spit of sand in the distance—“so when Mr. Stache returns from his water-barrel chase, he’ll find he has a nasty long swim to reach the Wasp. Meanwhile, we’ll be locating that treasure.”

“How d’you know it’s here?” said Little Richard. “How d’you know the storm didn’t carry it off?”

“Oh, it’s here, all right,” said Slank, his hand going to the chain at his neck. “I can feel it. It’s here, and it’s going to be mine.” CHAPTER 43

VISITORS

ALF GAPED AT THE SAVAGE FOR SEVERAL SECONDS before he could get the words out.

“You…you speak English,” he said.

“Yes,” said the savage. “So, apparently, do you.”

The savage grunt-clicked something to the others, who chuckled.

“B—But how?” said Alf.

“Oh, English is easy,” said the savage. “You want a difficult language, try this one.” He rattled off a bizarre-sounding sequence of grunts, clicks, and pops, culminating in a low whistle. This got another big laugh.

“Yes,” said Alf, “but what I mean is, how did you learn English?”

“The same way you did, I assume,” said the savage. “From listening to Englishmen. I spent thirteen years on ships of the British navy.”

“You was a sailor?” said Alf.

“I think a more accurate word is slave,” said the savage, “although the term the navy used was pressed into service. Twenty years ago they landed here and took me. And my two brothers.”

The savage’s tone remained conversational, but his eyes had turned cold.

“My brothers responded to captivity less well than I,” he continued. “They were both gone within a year. But I was…adaptable, and quite good at languages. Thirteen years I spent in the company of—doing the bidding of—Englishmen. Thirteen years, until the kindness of fate, and a shipwreck, brought me back home, to Mollusk.”

“Mollusk?” said Alf.

“The name we call this island, our home,” said the savage. “Actually, our word for it is…” He uttered a strange sound, from somewhere deep in his throat. “We call ourselves the Mollusk people. I have the honor of being our leader. My name—or the English version of my name—is Fighting Prawn.”

“Fighting Prawn?” said Alf.

“Does my name amuse you, Englishman?” said Fighting Prawn.

“No,” said Alf, his grin evaporating.

“If I may ask,” said Fighting Prawn, “what is your name?”

“Alf,” said Alf.

“Alf,” repeated Fighting Prawn. He said something to the other Mollusks, which included “Alf.” They roared with laughter. Fighting Prawn turned back to Alf.

“In our language,” he said, “Alf means squid poop.”

“Ah,” said Alf.

“Now, Alf,” said Fighting Prawn, getting a chuckle from the men, “these boys”—he gestured to James, Prentiss, Thomas, and Tubby Ted—“are they your children?”

“Oh, no,” said Alf. “Them’s orphans, from the ship.”

“I see,” said Fighting Prawn. “And where is your ship at present?”

“Bottom of the sea, I reckon,” said Alf. “Storm broke her to pieces, it did. We barely got off with our skins.”

“Pity,” said Fighting Prawn. “And were there any other survivors?”

“Dunno,” said Alf, shaking his head. “It was terrible rough out there. A bloody miracle we found this island, it is.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Fighting Prawn. “We get visitors here every year or so. Some arrive through misfortune, as in your case; others arrive with a purpose. At one time, the Mollusks welcomed these visitors. We have learned better.”

“Wh—what do you…mean?” said Alf.

“I mean,” said Fighting Prawn, “that we have learned that things seem to work best on Mollusk when the only inhabitants are Mollusks.”

There were a few moments of silence, broken by James.

“Sir, if you please,” he said.

“Yes, boy?” said Fighting Prawn.

“What happened to the other, uh, visitors? Do they still live here?”

Fighting Prawn regarded James for a moment, his black eyes impassive. “No,” he said, finally. “They no longer live here.”

“So,” said James, “wh—when visitors come, you let them go?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Fighting Prawn. CHAPTER 44

PARTING WAYS

PETER STOPPED, HOLDING UP HIS HAND. Molly paused a foot behind him.

They’d moved along the edge of the clearing, following the sound of voices. Mostly they’d heard two—Alf, and another man—both speaking English, which puzzled Peter, as the only men he’d seen other than Alf were savages.

Now, approaching the voices, separated from the clearing by only a few yards of thick vegetation, Peter turned and leaned in close to Molly, speaking in the barest whisper.

“How much of that stuff have you got left in your locket?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “Why? What are you thinking?”

“I’m going to run out there and start yelling,” said Peter. “I’ll get the savages to chase me into the jungle. Then you can run over to the boys and Alf, and fly them out of there. We can meet on the beach.”

Molly shook her head. “No, Peter,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ve got enough starstuff left for that. Besides, they would likely catch us both before we took two steps.”

“Then what’s your plan?” said Peter.

“We go find the trunk first,” said Molly. “With more starstuff…”

“No,” Peter interrupted. “They could be…dead…by then. We don’t know where the trunk is. We don’t even know if it’s on this island.”

Molly reached up, wrapped a hand around her locket and said, “It’s not far off. I can feel it. We must find it. It’s our only hope to help the boys.”

“You don’t care about my mates,” Peter said. “You just want your trunk.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “Of course I care about them. But, yes, the trunk is more important than any of us . . . than all of us combined. And right now it’s also our only hope to help the boys, and ourselves. Please, Peter.”

Peter shook his head. “I won’t leave my mates,” he said. “I can’t.”

“All right,” said Molly. “Fine, then. I’ll find the trunk on my own.”

“Seriously? You won’t help me?”

“Help you get yourself killed? No, I won’t.”

Peter drew back, his expression hurt and angry. “Fine, then,” he said. “Good luck finding the trunk…without me.”

Not waiting for her response, he turned and crept closer to the clearing. As he reached its edge, he stopped and looked behind him.

Molly was gone.

Fine, then.

On his stomach now, Peter inched forward until he could peer into the clearing. There were savages standing only a few feet in front of him; beyond them he saw his mates. Alf stood with them. Although he’d heard talking as he crawled forward, there was only silence now, and a fearful look on Alf’s face.

Peter patted the ground around him; his hand closed on a rock, and he tugged it out of the damp, spongy soil. His plan now—it was the best he could come up with, under the circumstances—was to create a distraction. He would hurl the rock at the savages, yell, and then retreat into the jungle, hoping they’d chase after him. That would give Alf and the boys a chance to run off.

Holding the rock, Peter slowly rose to his feet.

Here goes nothing.

He took aim at the older savage, who appeared to be the leader. He drew his arm back…judged the distance…then brought it forward, hard.

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.”