CHAPTER 3 - MOLLY

 

PETER TROTTED AFT on the Never Land’s bustling deck, dodging the sailors making final preparations for casting off and getting under way. The forward gangway had been detached, hauled aboard, and stowed; now sailors were working on the aft gangway. When they were done, there would be no way off the ship.

Peter’s plan was to dart down the gangway just before they finished the job and disappear into the bustle on the wharf. He figured the ship’s departure wouldn’t be held up just for him, a mere one boy out of five.

He had no plan for what he’d do once he got off the ship; all he knew was, he didn’t want to stay on it. He’d seen enough of the Never Land to decide that it was an unpleasant, dirty place, run by unpleasant, dirty men. They were around him now, stinking of sweat, struggling with lines and sails as an officer shouted orders that consisted mostly of curses. They don’t seem like a happy group, thought Peter.

He neared the aft gangway and stopped, looking for his chance to flee. Directly ahead, blocking his path, stood the first officer, Slank, supervising the gangway crew. Just beyond, two sailors were carrying the canvas-draped cargo that had been brought onto the ship at the last minute. Peter had watched the cargo’s arrival and the little drama that had played out on the wharf. He’d seen the sailor, the one with the big nose wart, reach under the canvas and touch something; he’d seen the look that had come over the man’s face. He looked so happy, Peter thought. Why did he look so happy?

Peter studied the mysterious cargo now being maneuvered into the aft hold. It didn’t look heavy; the sailors handled it fairly easily. Peter wondered what was inside.

He was distracted by a giggle, and turned to see a rare sight: a girl. He’d not seen many girls over the past few years; St. Norbert’s had had only one, the headmaster’s daughter, an unpleasant, sallow-faced child who amused herself by dropping spiders onto the heads of boys passing beneath her third-floor window.

This girl he saw now in no way resembled the headmaster’s daughter. She had large, wide-set green eyes, and long brown hair that curled slightly and turned to gold at the tips. She wore a long, straight blue dress that accentuated the slimness of her frame. She was perhaps an inch taller than Peter, and by the look of her she took baths. At St. Norbert’s, Peter took one bath a month, unless he could get out of it.

He straightened his posture and tried to look older.

The girl stood next to a stout woman, wearing a wide-ranging and complicated skirt and wielding a formidable black umbrella. The woman’s hair was an unnatural shade of red, and she wore a great deal of powder on her face, caked and cracked at the edges of her mouth and nose. She was surveying the ship and crew, and it was clear she did not approve of either.

The canvas-wrapped cargo was lowered into the hold, and disappeared. The brown-haired girl watched it go, then glanced around quickly. Her eyes fell on Peter. He half expected her to look away, as strangers do when their gazes lock by accident, but she didn’t; she kept her eyes on him, studying him openly, until finally it was he who broke the contact. Peter turned toward the wharf.

“Ready, sir!” shouted a seaman.

“Get aboard, then,” shouted Slank. “We’re wasting time!”

Peter’s attention returned to the gangway, which he saw was about to be hauled aboard. This was it, his chance to escape. He tensed his legs as he prepared for the dash to the wharf. Ready, set …

“Peter!” He felt a hand grab his shirt from behind. “Peter!”

It was James. “Not now,” whispered Peter. “Go away.”

 

 

“But I lost you—and—and—and I couldn’t find you, and—and …”

“Go away!” hissed Peter, pushing James from him. He looked around quickly and saw the girl staring at him. He looked back to where several sailors were preparing to haul up the gangway. Again Peter stiffened, ready to run for it.

“Please,” James pleaded, weeping, his voice desperate. “I’m scared.”

Peter looked—he didn’t know why—back up at the girl. She was watching him intently. For an instant he thought her expression meant that she disapproved of his shoving James, and it bothered him. Why do I care what she thinks?

But then the girl shook her head side to side, barely moving it.

It’s not disapproval, Peter thought. She’s warning me.

The girl nodded her head toward the gangway. Peter looked that way and saw a huge man—more a horse than a man—who hadn’t been there a minute before. His enormous black-booted feet were braced on the deck. His right hand held a long, coiled whip.

I wonder what he …

It happened in a second, at most two. A sailor bolted for the gangplank, his bare feet slapping wood. He had taken perhaps three long strides when the whip cracked—it moved much too fast for Peter to see it—and wrapped itself around this man’s ankle like a snake. The sailor crashed to the deck as the giant jerked the whip back, dragging the man effortlessly, as if he were no more than a dead cat, to the feet of the scowling Slank.

Slank spat on the sailor.

“Having second thoughts, were you, now?” he said. “Somebody always does, come cast-off time. That’s why we have Little Richard, here.” Slank nodded back at the huge man, then drew back his leg and kicked the would-be escapee hard in the ribs. The man moaned and squirmed on the deck.

“You’ll be starting out this voyage with a week in the brig,” said Slank. “Hardtack and water for a week. You can sleep with the rats for a while, and if that don’t improve your attitude, we’ll give you another taste of Little Richard’s lash—only this time he won’t be so gentle.”

Slank glared around the deck. “Anybody else having thoughts of leaving?” he said. The sailors, avoiding Slank’s stare, busied themselves with their work.

“I thought not,” said Slank. “Now, get this bag of lice out of my sight.”

As the sailor was lifted, still moaning, and hauled below, Slank resumed his supervision of the gangway crew. “READY!” he shouted. “HEAVE TO!”

The sailors grunted, and the gangway was raised up off the wharf and slid back onto the deck. Slank gave the order to cast off the lines. The bow, pushed by the tide, began to slowly swing away from the wharf. No getting off the ship now.

Peter glanced up again at the girl. She was still watching him. If not for her warning, it would have been his ankle snared by the whip, and his bruised body being hauled off the brig. He nodded to the girl, just a bit. It was the closest he could come to thanking her.

The girl nodded back, her face serious, but her eyes betraying a hint of amusement. And then, to Peter’s surprise, she walked over to the short set of ladderlike stairs that led from the aft deck cabins to the main deck, collected her skirts into a fistful of fabric, and descended.

The stout woman leaned over the rail and called after her. “Miss Molly! Miss Molly!” But the girl paid no mind. She walked up to Peter, who made himself as tall as he could. They were just eye to eye.

“Thinking of leaving us, were you?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said.

“Don’t you?” she said, smiling now.

“No, I don’t.”

“Good,” she said. “Because it would be a shame to miss a voyage aboard such a lovely ship as the Never Land.”

The stout woman leaning over the upper rail snorted, making a noise like an irate duck.

“Lovely ship, indeed,” she said. “It’s a floating stinkhouse, is what it is, pardon my French. And barely floating at that.”

“That’s Mrs. Bumbrake,” said the girl, still looking straight at Peter. “She’s my … governess.”

“Your father buys us passage on a garbage scow,” said Mrs. Bumbrake, “but does he sail with us? Oh no. Not him. He sails on the Wasp, the finest ship in all of England.”

“I’m sure Father has his reasons,” said the girl.

Mrs. Bumbrake made the duck sound again.

“My name is Molly Aster,” the girl said to Peter. “What’s your name?”

“Peter,” he said.

“What’s your last name?

“I don’t know,” he said. It was true. Back at St. Norbert’s, he’d once asked Mr. Grempkin what his last name was, and Grempkin had boxed his ear and told him it was a stupid question. Peter never asked again.

“Well, Mr. Peter Nobody,” said Molly, “do you know how old you are?”

“How old are you?” said Peter.

“I’m twelve,” said Molly.

“I’m thirteen,” said Peter.

“Wait,” said Molly. “I just remembered. Today is my birthday. I’m fourteen.”

Peter frowned. “Wait,” he said. “If you were twelve, and today’s your birthday, you’d be thirteen.”

“Not in my family,” said Molly. “In my family, we only celebrate even-numbered birthdays.”

Peter was impressed. He’d never thought of that.

“I just remembered something myself,” he said. “Today is also my birthday, and I am now”—he paused dramatically—“sixteen.”

“No,” said Molly. “Too much. I’ll accept fourteen. We’ll both be fourteen.”

Peter thought about it.

“All right, then,” he said. “Fourteen.”

“So, Mr. fourteen-year-old Peter Nobody,” said Molly, “why are you going to Rundoon?”

“What’s Rundoon?” asked Peter.

Molly laughed. “You really don’t know?” she said.

“No,” said Peter.

“Well,” said Molly, “you’ll know soon enough, because that’s where this ship is sailing. My father is to be the new ambassador there, in the court of His Royal Highness, King Zarboff”—she held up the three middle fingers of her right hand—“the Third.”

“The daughter of an ambassador!” said Mrs. Bumbrake. “And he puts us on this seagoing dirtbucket, pardon my French.”

“What kind of a place is Rundoon?” asked Peter.

Mrs. Bumbrake made the duck sound.

“Not a terribly pleasant one, I’m afraid,” said Molly. “The people are nice enough, but the king is not nice at all.”

“The king?” said Peter.

“His Royal Highness, King Zarboff the Third,” said Molly, and again she held up three fingers. “He’s a bad man.”

“What do you mean, he’s bad?” said Peter. “And why do you hold up your fingers when you say his name?”

“I’m practicing,” said Molly. “If you don’t salute with these three fingers when you say his name, and he finds out, he has these very fingers cut off.”

“He does?” said Peter.

“He does,” said Molly. “There’s a shop in Rundoon that sells nothing but two-fingered gloves. Does a brisk business, too.”

“Oh,” said Peter.

“But that’s not the worst part,” said Molly.

“It’s not?”

“No. The king’s late father, His Royal Highness, King Zarboff the Second, was eaten by a snake.”

“So?” said Peter.

“It wasn’t just any snake,” said Molly. “It was the pet snake of His Royal Highness, King Zarboff the Third.” Both Molly and Peter held up three fingers this time.

“His snake ate his father?” Peter said.

“Yes, said Molly. “Somehow”—she arched her eyebrows knowingly—“the snake got loose in the father’s bedroom while he was sleeping. They say the son wasn’t a bit upset—didn’t even seem surprised—when it ate his father. And now, as king, he keeps the snake by his throne, and feeds it by hand.”

“What does he feed the snake?” asked little James, speaking up for the first time.

“And who’s this young gentleman?” asked Molly.

“He’s James,” said Peter. “And don’t ask him his last name, because he doesn’t know it either.”

“What does he feed the snake?” repeated James. “I mean, now that his father is gone.”

“Pigs, mostly,” said Molly. “But Father says that sometimes, if one of his servants has disappointed him, the king …”

“Molly!” interrupted Mrs. Bumbrake. “That’s enough!”

James was crying again. “Peter,” he sniffled, “I don’t want to go to where there’s a mean king and hungry snakes!”

“Here, now!” boomed an angry voice behind Peter. Recognizing the tone, Peter was already ducking before the “now” ended, and thus he received only a glancing blow from First Officer Slank.

“You runts ain’t supposed to be here!” shouted Slank at Peter and James. “This here is for first-class passengers. These here ladies …”

He glanced up toward Mrs. Bumbrake, whose skirts swirled in the wind, revealing a plump ankle, a pink flash of shin. Slank’s mouth went slack for a moment, then he smacked his lips. Mrs. Bumbrake blushed and tilted her head down, raising her eyes so she could bat them at the smitten Slank.

“… these here lovely ladies,” he said, turning back to Peter and James, “do not want to be bothered by riffraff like you.”

Molly said, “But they aren’t bothering us!”

“Forward with you right now!” said Slank, ignoring Molly and giving Peter and James a rough shove, so that Peter had to grab James to keep him from falling.

“There’s no need for that!” said Molly.

“All due respect, miss,” said Slank, “but I knows how to handle this here riffraff. We’ve had these orphan boys aboard before, and if you let ’em …”

“Orphans?” said Molly, her eyes widening. “These are the orphans?”

“Yes, miss,” said Slank. “We got five of ’em this voyage.”

Molly, somber now, stared at Peter.

“What?” said Peter.

“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Bumbrake.

“What?” repeated Peter. But Molly said nothing.

“Get moving,” said Slank, shoving Peter and James again. “And if you don’t want to feel Little Richard’s lash, you’ll stay forward until we reach Rundoon. After that, your sorry hides belong to Zarboff.”

Peter froze. “King Zarboff?” he said, slowly raising three fingers. “The Third?”

Slank laughed, pleased by the fear on Peter’s face. “Why, yes!” he said. “You didn’t know? You’ll be spending your days as a servant in the court of His Royal Majesty! He goes through a lot of servants, does the king. Seems we got to bring him a new lot every trip we make. So my advice is, step lively, unless you want to see his snake from the inside.” Slank, roaring with laughter, gave Peter and James another shove. The two boys stumbled forward, James sobbing. When they reached the bow, Peter turned and saw that Molly was still watching him. The Never Land’s sails were almost all hoisted now; the ship was moving out of the harbor. Peter glanced over the side at the dark water, gauging the distance to land, but he’d never tried to swim, and knew this was not the time or the place to learn. Besides, the way James was clinging to his shirtsleeve, if he went over the side they’d both end up drowning.

No, there was no escaping it now. They were on their way to Rundoon.