Hook's Revenge Page 13

  Occasionally, my butler, Gregory, will eat rich foods too late in the evening, interrupting my slumber with the foulest of odors. And that is not Gregory’s only fault. Just this morning, at breakfast, he wagged his tail at me, not once, but twice. Such impertinence, coupled with his nocturnal vapors, would be enough to get him sacked if I could find a suitable replacement. Unfortunately, no new applicant is willing to curl up in my lap on long winter evenings.

  Jocelyn sensed the difference, even as she slept. Her boat no longer rocked on the waves. Warm sun kissed her bare arms. The cry of gulls tickled her sleeping ears. Best of all, a mouthwatering scent nuzzled her nose. She sat up and rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes.

  The dinghy tilted to one side, aground on a rocky shore. Just up the beach, a cluster of mango trees beckoned. Behind her, in the sea, she heard a splash. Jocelyn turned just in time to see a flash of shiny scales. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She climbed out of the boat and gingerly picked her way over the stones, regretting her lost shoe. When she reached the end of the rocks, Jocelyn sat down and pulled off the other. “I think no shoes are better than only one,” she said, flinging it into a clump of sea grass. To make the deed complete, she balled up what was left of her stockings and tossed them away as well.

  Eventually, and to the envy of all their friends and relations, a young chickadee couple would move into the shoe: A silver-buckled brocade, on their income? How do they do it?

  Since she had no idea what to do next, Jocelyn lingered over a breakfast of juicy mangoes. “I wanted an adventure,” she spoke aloud to herself, “and I got one, but not like I expected. If I ever make another wish, I’ll try to remember to be more specific.” She sat in silence, thinking a bit, before going on. “I can’t do anything about Roger. I can’t get to my ship and help my crew. On my own, I don’t know if I can defeat the crocodile.” Remembering the way she had frozen in fear when she faced it, she thought, I’m not even sure I can do it with help.

  Loud cawing interrupted her musings. A large black crow settled in the mango tree and picked at the fruit. Though it was not a creature she knew personally, she thought it likely he was a friend of Edgar’s. They were both birds, after all.

  This is much the way that all people from the same geographical area are sure to be familiar with one another: Oh, you are from Lichtenstein? You must know Harold.

  “Excuse me,” Jocelyn asked the bird, “do you know Edgar? He runs the courier service?”

  The crow’s beak was full of mango. Instead of speaking, it nodded.

  Excellent. If Jocelyn could locate the courier, she could enlist his help in finding and rescuing her crew. Certainly he would have resources that could be of use. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  The crow lifted a wing and pointed toward a thick stand of jungle growth. An overgrown path divided the trees.

  “He lives down that way? About how far?”

  It swallowed the bit of food in its mouth. “Not far,” it replied, “as the crow flies.”

  “But I’m walking,” Jocelyn said. The bird shrugged and flew away. “Thank you for being so incredibly helpful!” she called after it, then muttered, “I hope he gets baked into a pie.”

  Finding Edgar somewhere up the path wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than nothing. She stood up, wiped mango juice from her mouth with the back of her hand, and started off.

  Jocelyn hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards into the jungle when she heard the ticking of a clock. The nightmare image of her father turning into the crocodile arose in her mind. Had the beast followed her here? In her dream, she had been unsure if the beast had been hunting her or if she had been hunting it. Even now she was uncertain, but she refused to wait for the monster to come and inform her.

  She would not be pursued like a frightened rabbit. She pulled her sword from its sheath, left the path, and followed the dreadful ticktock.

  Pushing aside a tangle of vines blocking her way, Jocelyn spied the beast, its massive snout snuffling at the ground as it lumbered through the underbrush. It was even more terrible on land. She could not seem to wrap her head around the size of the creature—easily twenty-five feet long. The crocodile’s scarred, leathery hide was covered in dust, mud, and trailing bits of seaweed. Decay and despair hung about it like a noxious cloud.

  I will not freeze. I will not freeze, Jocelyn repeated over and over in her head. In spite of herself, she retreated a step, snapping a twig underfoot.

  The monster’s head jerked up. It turned one appalling red eye on her, and terror erupted in her chest. She faltered, backing up another step. In a flash she was captured. Jocelyn dropped her sword as she was pulled right off her feet.

  She had triggered some kind of trap; a net had sprang out of the dense jungle foliage and wrapped tightly around her. It pulled her up, snaring her high in a tree, a heartbeat before the crocodile burst through the undergrowth. She lay facedown, jumbled in a mass of thick ropes. The beast pushed back onto its hind legs and lunged for her. Jocelyn stared down into the creature’s dark throat. A stench of rot and misery enveloped her.

  The massive reptile stretched, higher and higher, straining to get to its prey, stopping mere inches from her face. It snapped and hissed in frustration, unable to reach. Relief coursed through the girl. She was safe.

  But then, to her horror, she remembered that some crocodiles can jump. It recoiled back on its powerful haunches, preparing to spring.

  From the thick jungle foliage, a volley of arrows flew toward the monster. They bounced off its thick hide, falling harmlessly in the underbrush. No damage was visible, but the arrows did manage to distract it. The crocodile lowered itself to the ground, turning its head from side to side in an effort to locate the source of the arrows.

  More arrows flew toward it. Again they bounced off its armor. The beast looked confused. It snapped its jaws in first one direction, then another. A third attack followed, then a fourth. Though no blood flowed, the archers finally succeeded in driving the monster away. It hissed at Jocelyn once more before lumbering off through the jungle.

  Manly cheers erupted from the brush. However, if you were expecting Tiger Lily’s braves to burst upon the scene, you are, unsurprisingly, wholly incorrect. The Neverland is home to a wide variety of native groups, tribes, clans, herds, and gaggles. Unlike pirates, lost boys, and girls playing at being mothers, the indigenous people do not come from anywhere. They merely spring up in the Neverland from time to time, as much a part of that clever island as her changeable mountain ranges and tidal flats.

  The girl’s rescuers, warriors from one such group of native Neverlandians, appeared, brandishing stone swords and finely crafted longbows. Jocelyn marveled. These men had not been afraid of the beast. Though her heart still pounded out a panicked rhythm, thoughts of the monster shrank at the sight of her saviors, gathered below. They could have stepped right out of the pages of an adventure book.

  Eight mustachioed faces peered up at the girl in their snare. Their facial hair was impressive: brightly dyed and magnificently long (the most remarkable must have been at least an arm span from tip to tip). Jocelyn wondered how they managed to wax their whiskers into such stiff obedience. Sir Charles’s mustache was much, much smaller, but it still drooped by midmorning.

  Jocelyn was glad for the distraction. She preferred to focus on the men’s faces, as they wore an embarrassing lack of clothing: nothing more than short trousers made of brightly colored cloth and feathers. Even their heads were uncovered, topped only by spiky hair in shades to match their fantastic whiskerature.

  Though she tried not to focus on them, a quick peek at the men’s shirtless torsos revealed a variety of fantastic tattoos, including one very familiar pattern. How bizarre it was that each of these Neverland warriors should sport the Union Jack, Great Britain’s flag, across his upper back.

  Two o
f the men untied the line securing their net and lowered Jocelyn to the ground. The rest of the group laughed and chattered in an unfamiliar language.

  They are probably saying how glad they are that this trap saved me, although they must be sorry to have caught a girl instead of dinner, Jocelyn thought. Her face burned with shame. She would not have needed saving if she hadn’t backed away from the crocodile. Perhaps if she had lunged, she might have bested it. In that case, instead of releasing her from the folds of the net, these strange men would be honoring her with a feast for freeing them from the tyranny of the monster.

  Once she felt the solid ground again, Jocelyn stood to thank the circle of rescuers closing around her, even more fantastic and alien than they had first appeared. Closer inspection revealed their unusual face adornments to be not mustaches but large feathers sprouting from their nostrils. That explained the wonderful length and vivid hue. And what she had mistaken for hair was a patch of smaller feathers growing from the top of each of their heads. Their bright plumage, set against the seriousness of the men’s faces, looked so comical that Jocelyn could not help but laugh. Several of the men lifted their swords in response.

  “Please calm down,” she said. “I did not mean to offend you. I’m only laughing because I’ve never seen anyone like you, either in the Neverland or in England.”

  The men smiled widely at her speech, mouths crowded with more teeth than seemed altogether decent. She heard a couple of them say, “Englee!”

  “Yes, I see that you are familiar with my country. How did you happen to start wearing the Union Jack?”

  The warriors made no reply to her question other than to nudge one another, wink, and say, “Englee. Englee good.”

  Jocelyn tried speaking slower and louder so as to make herself understood.

  “WHY—YOU”—she pointed at them—“HAVE—ENGLEE—FLAGEE”—she made a waving motion like a flag in the wind—“ON—YOUR—BACK?”

  The men stopped smiling and exchanged glances. The kind of glances that seemed to say, This person may be mad. That must be a popular facial expression. I see it rather often.

  One warrior reached out and pinched Jocelyn on the arm.

  “Ouch! Stop that!” she said, slapping his hand away.

  They roared with laughter, again saying, “Englee, good!”

  In a very loud voice, the man with the longest feather mustache (bright yellow with sharply pointed ends) said, “WE—GO—TO—KARNAPINAE—VILLAGE”—he placed his fingertips together, forming a house shape—“AND—FEAST”—eating motions. “YOU—COME—QUICK—NOW. NO—TROUBLE—ENGLEE.”

  Satisfied that her way of communicating had proved effective, Jocelyn replied, “NO—NO—TROUBLE—AT—ALL!”

  He nodded and, taking Jocelyn by the arm, led her down a nearby trail. Two warriors ran ahead, presumably to alert the village of their guest. The rest followed, each holding his sword at the ready.

  Jocelyn hated that the men felt a need to protect her. To take her mind off her embarrassment, she asked the yellow-feathered man, “WHAT—ARE—WE—FEASTING—ON?”

  Even though she spoke loudly and slowly, Yellow Feathers must not have understood, for he only nodded and said with a gleaming smile, “Englee!”

  Jocelyn and her new friends trekked through the jungle in silence, though the men continued to grin at her and mumble about “good Englee.” Occasionally one or another reached out to pinch or poke at her. Though Jocelyn decided this must be a display of friendship, slapping their hands away was becoming wearisome.

  Before long the scent of cooking fires and a small scattering of stone-and-thatch shelters signaled their arrival in the village. The Karnapinae women were absent, perhaps already preparing for the feast. A group of ragged children ran over to see the warriors’ guest. They also had feathers growing from their heads and noses, though theirs were small and downy. Jocelyn wanted to ask the children more about their village, but they hung back shyly, staring.

  Instead she grinned and waved, calling, “I’ll see you at the feast!”

  The children burst into wild laughter, as if she had said something particularly witty. Their easy merriment reminded Jocelyn of Roger. She wondered if he was, at that very moment, sharing a joke with the lost boys or, worse, Peter Pan. She dropped her hand and pulled her gaze away, her smile abandoning her face.

  The group continued deeper into the village, finally stopping outside the largest dwelling. Odd stone pillars carved with teapots and English bulldogs flanked an open doorway. Tacked to the wall above it hung a tattered Union Jack. One of Jocelyn’s escorts rudely prodded her backside with the blunt end of his spear and pointed to the dwelling. “YOU—SEE—KING. MAKE—READY—FOR—FEAST.”

  She scowled at him, rubbing at the sore spot. “There’s no need to be rude. I wanted to see your old king anyway!” She marched through the entry, the men’s laughter following her inside.

  In the center of the hut sat a carved wooden throne, brightly painted and covered in precious stones. In contrast to the great chair, the wizened man upon it appeared quite frail and small.

  He presented himself in dress and adornment much like those Jocelyn was already acquainted with, although there were some subtle differences. While the warriors wore nothing on their heads, a covering of plaited reeds sat upon the old king’s. It had a rounded top and a slightly turned-up brim running all the way around.

  The king’s clothing, or rather, his lack of, looked no different from anyone else’s. It revealed a wrinkled body covered with distorted tattoos. Jocelyn longed for him to turn around. This would give her the opportunity to see if he sported the same design as his warriors on his upper back—and also keep her from having to look at his shriveled chest and belly.

  Nasal feathers of the deepest vermilion sprouted from his nostrils. They were longer than any the girl had yet seen and quivered with every breath. While Jocelyn studied the king’s nose feathers, he took a deep breath, causing them to bob emphatically. “Are you afflicted with either hearing loss or some sort of mental incapacity?”

  Jocelyn eyes widened. “You speak perfect English.”

  “Of course. All Karnapinaes learn to speak English at a young age, though none command the language quite as well as I. One of my messengers, when he informed me you were coming to our village, said you had an infirmity of either the ears or the mind. It appears he was mistaken.”

  Jocelyn’s cheeks flushed, but she replied, “Hmmm, did he now? I wonder what gave him that impression.” Eager to change the subject, she asked about the king’s unusual hat.

  “This is modeled on a very popular English style, the bowler,” he answered proudly. “Do you not recognize it? Perhaps it is from a different When than you have come from.”

  “Perhaps it is,” Jocelyn agreed. “I can’t imagine my grandfather choosing to wear that style, but somehow it suits you. You seem to be quite well versed in English language and fashions. How did that come about, here in the Neverland? Do you have many English visitors?” Jocelyn asked.

  “Not nearly as many as we would like,” he replied. “I will tell you a bit of the history of the Karnapinae so that you may understand our great interest in your country.” The king straightened on his throne, obviously pleased to share his story. “We learned of your great land from my father. He was the first of our people to discover how to fly with his nose feathers.

  “At the time, he was a young man, not yet ready to take on the responsibilities of leadership. His journeys took him all over this world and into the other. After many seasons, he found the land your people call England. Though my father wished never to leave that place, his duty was here. He returned home to lead our people, but he never forgot. Of all the places on earth, he found England to be the most delicious.”

  That’s an odd way to describe it, Jocelyn thought.

  “No one has made the long journey sin
ce. My father died while I was yet young, and I became king of the Karnapinae people. My responsibilities have kept me here. Being unable to taste such wonders myself, I jealously ordered my people not to attempt the flight. Now I am old and can no longer travel the great distances that are required. I dream of sending my sons in my place as soon as their nose feathers grow large enough to carry them.

  “It is my desire that they may fit unobtrusively into society, to keep from alarming the livestock—rather, the English citizens. Thus I have educated them, and all my people, in the ways of yours. Now you are here, and you can add to their knowledge. You have little time to teach my people all you know before we have you at our afternoon feast.”

  “I can do that,” Jocelyn agreed, “but with two conditions. First, please tell me, why were your men unafraid of the crocodile? Everyone else seems to be terrified in its presence.”

  “That is simple. My warriors do feel dread at the sight of the beast, but they push it aside when they must. In this case they wanted you more than they feared the monster.”

  Jocelyn flushed. “How kind of them. I must remember to say thank you. My second condition is this: I need to return to my ship. My crew is in trouble, and I have to help them. Could you send some of your warriors to accompany me after the feast?”

  The old king frowned. “This I cannot do. Perhaps you do not understand. You will not be a guest at the feast. Instead, you will have the great honor of becoming the main dish.”

  With a snap of his fingers, the king summoned Yellow Feathers into the hut. The warrior clamped the struggling girl between his strong hands, holding her still while the king gave instructions. Yellow Feathers would accompany Jocelyn to the feast preparation site, where the rest of the kingdom was assembling. There the girl would be privileged to nourish first the Karnapinaes’ minds—and then their bodies.

  With a wink, the king tipped his homemade bowler hat, and Jocelyn was dragged from the hut.