Peter and the Starcatchers: Chapters 35–58

“All right, then,” he said, shouldering his way through the vegetation. “This way.”
The unyielding jungle made the going tiring.

Behind him, he heard Prentiss and Thomas crying softly, and Tubby Ted’s labored breathing as he struggled to keep up.

Not daring to venture any farther away from Prentiss and Thomas, James turned back.

But when he opened his eyes, the jungle was still there, surrounding him with its ominous, gloomy silence.

With visibility limited to only a few feet, and with no way to take their bearings, they couldn’t be sure if they were still going in the right direction.

“Beautiful, ain’t she?” Stache said, in a moment of uncharacteristic reverence.

Then, after a pause, he said: “Say, Cap’n, wasn’t you looking for a trunk?”
“OF COURSE I AM, YOU SEAGULL-BRAINED CRETIN,” bellowed Stache. “THE TRUNK IS WHY WE’RE ON THIS BLEEDIN’ ISLAND!”

There were nine of them, all females, and for hours they had barely moved, other than to make small, efficient motions with their bodies to counteract the ebb and flow of the wave-surge, and thus keep themselves bathed in the glowing, green-gold water.

The mouth became smaller, and a bulge of flesh started to protrude above it; ears were sprouting on each side of the head.

On the trunk, the dorsal fin now shrank, absorbed by the body, while the pectoral fins stretched longer, with the ends splaying into distinct fingers of tissue.

But they held the spears upright, and their bemused expressions told James that they weren’t planning to stab him.

They were speaking, but in a strange language that consisted mostly of guttural sounds and a strange clicking noise.

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.”

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.

He rattled off a bizarre-sounding sequence of grunts, clicks, and pops, culminating in a low whistle.

“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 regarded James for a moment, his black eyes impassive.

“We’ll be fine, lad,” whispered Alf, though his eyes betrayed his misgivings.

They moved along the edge of this strange tree fortress until they came to a section where the exterior branch-poles had been fortified with horizontal logs, lashed to the uprights with thick rope made from braided vines.

Fighting Prawn began talking to the throng in Mollusk, the tribe listening in motionless silence.

Little Richard, who liked women as much as he hated spiders, scrambled forward, inadvertently knocking Slank aside as he hauled himself up on the rock to see.

“You visitors always say that, and sometimes you may even mean it. But we have learned that you visitors are always trouble, pirates or no. You have abused our hospitality, brought disease, taken us as slaves, killed us like animals...”

“Hello there, ladies!” said Slank, cordially.

They moved forward, the sound of their sloshing echoing back to them in the dark, cavernous space. Soon they were in deep gloom, barely able to make out the cave walls, no longer able to see beneath the surface of the water.

They pressed on, the cave entrance now almost out of sight, their eyes straining to pick up what little of the wan dusk filtered in through openings in the boulders high overhead.

“GO GET IT,” barked Slank, evoking a flurry of hisses from the she-fish.

And then her mother looked up and saw it, and her shout of surprise and alarm caused the rest of the Mollusks to look up, too, shouting as the thing swooped through the high branches at the edge of the clearing, coming closer now, clearly far larger than any bird they’d ever seen, its shape difficult to discern in the near-darkness.

The cage echoed with the sound of claws scrabbling on the floor, and massive weight being dragged closer, closer.

Now it was Peter’s turn to scramble backward, with the thing turning in his direction, coming after him...coming, coming...its glowing eyes strangely dispassionate, a hungry beast about to do its work.

It halted and then slowly opened its massive mouth, close enough now that Peter could smell its musty, fetid breath.

Peter closed his eyes and held out his hands in a futile gesture of self-protection, and as he did….

He was eager to lead his men over that wall, but unsure of the disposition of the savages.

It was an unheard-of display of impudence, but Stache saw that the man spoke for the others.

Where minutes ago there had been mangled flesh and oozing blood, there was only unbroken skin.

The two men thrashed to the surface, struggling to stay afloat in their heavy clothes, weighed down by swords and pistols that they quickly jettisoned and let sink to the bottom.

Slank, paddling furiously, managed to get to the longboat. As he grabbed the gunwale, he felt the searing pain of teeth sinking into his thigh.

The starstuff began wearing off while they were still over the jungle; for a few moments, Peter thought they would be plunged into the thick, dark vegetation underlying the moonlit tree canopy.

He didn’t relish the thought of being lost in there at night.

Beneath a thick tree canopy ringing with monkey howls and other jungle sounds, Black Stache led his band of pirates, following a path that meandered in the general direction that the flying children—and Mister Grin—had gone.