فصل 18

CHAPTER 18

UNCLE TED

WENDY HAD A PLAN. Actually, it was more of a desperate hope than a plan. But at the moment it was all she had.

It had come to her on the train ride back to Cambridgeshire. Searching her memory, trying to remember everything her mother and her grandfather had told her about the Starcatchers, she’d convinced herself that there was indeed someone she could turn to: the flying boy, Peter. He was more than just his mother’s friend. He was an ally of the Starcatchers. He had joined forces with her mother and grandfather more than once. Wendy prayed that he would help her now.

If only she could find him.

Her mother had told her about the island. But what island, and where? And how would she get there? Again, Wendy scoured her memory. Her mother and James had spoken of the other orphan boys who’d been on the island, then returned to London. James had said that one of them was now a fellow at Cambridge. What was his name? Wendy had almost given up in despair when it finally the name came to her: Pratt.

The next morning, Wendy hurried downstairs in search of her uncle, only to be told by Mrs. Blotney, Uncle Neville’s long-suffering housekeeper, that Uncle Neville and her brothers had already eaten breakfast.

“They’ve gone out to the barn,” sighed Mrs. Blotney. “He’s going to try to fly that ornithopter contraption again. I’ve already sent for the doctor.”

“Oh dear,” said Wendy. Ignoring the plate of food Mrs. Blotney had set out for her, she ran out the door and down the gravel road to the barn. In the big meadow behind it, she found John and Michael watching excitedly as Uncle Neville, screwdriver in hand, tinkered with the gasoline motor on his flying contraption, which looked like a large, ungainly headless bird.

“Uncle Neville,” she began.

“Just a moment,” said Uncle Neville, frowning as he turned a screw.

“It’s going to fly!” said Michael. “It’s a…a…ornihopper!”

“Ornithopter, you ninny,” said John.

“That’s what I said,” said Michael.

“Uncle Neville,” Wendy repeated, “I just wanted to …”

“There!” said Uncle Neville, setting down his screwdriver.

He grabbed the motor’s starter crank and shouted, “Stand back!”

“But …” said Wendy, but Uncle Neville was already turning the crank.

With a loud BANG the motor emitted a cloud of smoke and sputtered to life, clacking and rattling. The ornithopter’s giant silk-and-feather wings slowly moved up, then down, then up again.

“It’s going to fly!” shouted Michael over the engine clatter.

“Yes!” shouted Uncle Neville, admiring the sight. “I believe it is!”

The wings were beating faster now.

“Uncle Neville!” shouted John, as the ornithopter began bouncing up and down on its wheeled carriage.

“What is it, lad?” shouted Uncle Neville.

“Aren’t you going to get on it?” shouted John.

“Oh my goodness!” cried Uncle Neville. He scurried around the side of the ornithopter, forced to take a long route to avoid the huge wings, now beating quite rapidly. Having cleared the wing, he lunged toward the pilot platform attached to the ornithopter frame.

Too late. With a mighty downsweep of its wings, the ornithopter leaped off the ground, its wheels just shooting clear of Uncle Neville’s grasping fingers. He watched helplessly as his invention rose into the air and, gaining altitude, began to flap its way across the meadow. Uncle Neville began to run after it, puffing hard; he was followed by John and Michael, both whooping with delight.

The three of them had gone about twenty yards when Uncle Neville, looking up at the ornithopter, failed to notice a molehill in front of him. He tripped on it and fell on his face with an oof; John and Michael, right behind, went down on top of him in a tangle of arms and legs. The three of them were struggling to their feet when the ornithopter emitted several loud bangs, then a series of wheezes. Then the engine went silent, and the wings stopped.

“Oh dear,” said Uncle Neville, as the ornithopter began to come down. It descended in a gentle spiral, then picked up speed before crashing into the meadow with a whump and pitching over forward, very much as its inventor had. Uncle Neville, followed by John and Michael, puffed over to it. Wendy caught up with them a minute later. Uncle Neville was examining the frame, which was bent; one of the wings had broken off.

“Nothing serious,” Uncle Neville said cheerfully. “I’ll have it ready to fly again in a day or so.” He looked sheepish. “This time, I’ll remember to get on.”

“Uncle Neville is going to fly on the ornihopper!” said Michael.

“Ornithopter,” said John.

“That’s what I said,” said Michael.

“Uncle Neville,” said Wendy, “do you think it’s wise to get on? I mean, it did come down rather hard.”

“Nothing to worry about,” said Uncle Neville. “It just needs some adjusting.”

“I see,” said Wendy. “Um, I was wondering if it would be all right if I went to the university today, to see an old friend of…”

“The carburetor,” said Uncle Neville.

“I beg your pardon?” said Wendy.

“That’s what needs adjusting.”

“I see,” Wendy said doubtfully. “So would it be all right if I went to see him?”

“See who?”

“The old family friend.”

“Is he here?” said Uncle Neville, looking around the meadow.

“No,” said Wendy. “He’s at the university.”

Uncle Neville looked thoughtful for a few moments. Then he said, “I’ll need the screwdriver.”

“I’ll get it!” said John, racing toward the barn.

“I’ll get it, too!” said Michael, running behind his brother.

Wendy stood watching Uncle Neville, who looked at his ornithopter, then at her.

“We’re very close,” he said.

“So it’s all right if I go to see him?” said Wendy.

“Who?” said Uncle Neville.

“The family friend,” said Wendy. “I’ll be back for supper.”

“Oh, it’s far too early for supper,” said Uncle Neville. “I’ve just had breakfast.”

“Right,” said Wendy. “Then I’ll see you later, when I get back from the university, all right?”

Uncle Neville seemed not to hear her. He was looking at the ornithopter again.

“Very close,” he said.

Wendy was lucky: Uncle Neville’s groundskeeper was taking his wagon into Cambridge that morning for supplies, and he agreed to let Wendy ride along. He dropped her off in Trumpington Street, near the town center; they arranged to meet there in three hours for the return trip.

As the wagon rumbled away, Wendy realized she faced a daunting task: the University of Cambridge consisted of many colleges, and many more buildings. But again luck was with her, in the form of a young male student walking past.

“Excuse me,” said Wendy. “I’m trying to find a Mr. Pratt.”

“Would that be Dr. Theodore Pratt?” the student said.

“Yes!” said Wendy, now remembering the first name. “Is his office nearby?”

“Couldn’t be much nearer,” said the student. “He’s a history fellow at Peterhouse. Go right through there; his office is in the second building on your right, third floor.”

Wendy thanked him and found her way to the brick building. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and found Dr. Pratt’s office. The door was open; inside she saw a stocky man with a genial round face reading a book. He sat at a desk covered with books, many open; more books—hundreds more—lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves covering two walls. Still more books were stacked in piles on the floor and on two old overstuffed chairs.

Wendy tapped on the door and said, “Dr. Pratt?”

“Yes?” said the man, looking up from his book. When he saw Wendy, he gasped.

“Young lady, forgive me for staring,” he said. “But you look exactly like a girl I used to know.”

“Molly Aster Darling,” said Wendy. “I’m her daughter.”

With a roar of delight, he rose from his desk, knocking several books to the floor, and lumbered over to Wendy. He started to hug her, but realizing that was a bit informal, he settled for vigorously shaking her hand.

“How delightful!” he said. “Last I saw you, you were just a baby, but here you’ve turned out every bit as beautiful as your mother!”

“Thank you, Dr. Pratt,” said Wendy, blushing.

“You must call me Uncle Ted,” he insisted. “It has been a while, but your mother and grandfather will always be family to me. How are they?”

Wendy said nothing, but the look on her face gave Ted his answer.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

Wendy nodded, fighting back tears.

Ted closed the door and ushered Wendy to one of the overstuffed chairs, sweeping the books to the floor so she could sit. He then did the same with the other chair and sat down.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me.”

It took a while; Wendy broke down crying when she talked about the disappearance of her mother, and as the rest of the story unfolded, Ted often interrupted her with questions. He became particularly excited when Wendy told him her grandfather’s story about Curtana.

“The Sword of Mercy!” he exclaimed.

“You’re familiar with it?”

“Indeed I am,” said Ted. “One of the history fellows here, a close friend of mine named Patrick Hunt, is an authority on it. He’d be quite interested to learn that the missing tip has been found, after all these centuries. But if your grandfather is right—and I have rarely known him to be wrong—this is a very serious matter indeed.”

“Yes,” said Wendy. “If the Others have found it, they’ll be able to open the Cache.”

“And you’re certain your grandfather didn’t tell you where this…Cache is located?”

“Only that it’s in London,” said Wendy. She hesitated, then added, “And he said something about ‘confess.‘”

“Confess what?”

“I don’t know. He just said ‘confess,’ and then he lost consciousness.”

Ted nodded, then said, “Who else have you told about this?”

“Aside from you, nobody,” said Wendy.

“Why not your father? He’s an influential man, and I’m certain he’s as worried about your mother as you are. And he’s dealt with the Others—he knows the danger.”

Wendy shook her head. “He insists that this is best handled by the police.”

“But you say the police are in on it!”

“I’m sure they are, at least some of them. But Father trusts them. And he’s very reluctant to say anything about starstuff, or the Others, or this Ombra. He says it’s ghost stories. He’s concerned about what people will think.”

Ted nodded, smiling ruefully. “That sounds like George,” he said.

“That’s why I’ve come to you, Dr. Pr—I mean, Uncle Ted,” said Wendy. “Mr. Smith said you were on that island, with mother and the flying boy, Peter.”

“Yes,” Ted said softly. “There were five of us from the St. Norbert’s orphanage—Peter, James, Prentiss, Thomas, and me. Four of us came back to England. But Peter chose to stay on the island.”

“But he came back to England once,” said Wendy. “To help my mother.”

Ted nodded. “That he did.”

“I want to ask him to help her again,” said Wendy.

“What?” said Ted.

“I must go to the island,” said Wendy. “I must talk to Peter.”

“But you can’t!”

“Why not?”

“Because…Well, for one thing, how will you get there?”

“I don’t know,” said Wendy. “I’ll find a way.” Her hand went to the locket around her neck.

“But you don’t even know where the island is!” said Ted.

“No,” said Wendy. “That’s why I’ve come to you. You lived there once, for a long time, didn’t you?”

“But…Never Land. I don’t know exactly where …” said Ted. “It’s just a speck in the ocean, and it has been so many years …”

“Well, somebody must know,” said Wendy. “A ship’s captain? One of the others: Thomas…Prentiss?”

Ted stared at Wendy, then said, “I must say, you don’t just look like your mother. You have her…tenacity…as well.”

“I’m sorry,” said Wendy. “It’s just that—”

“Don’t apologize,” said Ted. “I always admired your mother’s spirit. It’s to your credit that you have the same qualities.”

“So you’ll help me?” said Wendy.

Ted frowned in contemplation. Finally he said, “There may be someone who knows how to get to that island.”

“Who is it?” said Wendy eagerly.

“It’s someone I haven’t seen in many years,” said Ted. “Someone who may not even still be living.”

“But he or she might be?” said Wendy. “Alive? Able to help us?”

“He…yes. He just might be, yes,” said Ted. “But even if we can locate him, there’s the question of how we will communicate with him.”

“What do you mean?” said Wendy.

“You may not believe this,” said Ted, “but he happens to be a porpoise.”

Wendy smiled.

“Is something funny?”

“You may not believe this,” said Wendy, “but I happen to speak Porpoise.”