LOOK OUT!.

Peter felt it on the outside of his right thigh just above the knee, a sharp pain like a bee sting. He looked down, fearing he would see an arrow in his flesh. His fear turned to relief when he saw that the arrow had merely grazed him. He was bleeding, but it wasn't a serious wound, just a sc.r.a.pea "Uhh!"

Peter grunted as the muscles in his right leg suddenly contracted in violent cramps, which almost immediately spread to the rest of his body. He doubled over in excruciating pain, and, unable to control his flight, began to tumble from the sky.

Peter! Peter!

He could hear Tink shouting as she flitted around him, but he couldn't answer her, couldn't do anything except moan in agony as he tumbled through the air while waves of cramps racked his body. It was the poison, he knew. The arrow had barely sc.r.a.ped him, but still the pain was almost unendurable. Fighting Prawn had warned him. He had not heeded. And nowa Peter!

With great effort, Peter fought to straighten his body; he could see the water now, no more than fifty feet below him and getting closer. Somehow he managed to stop tumbling and slow his descent. With the sea just a few feet away, he began to fly forward, wobbling badly but at least no longer losing alt.i.tude.

You're going toward the boats!

Peter veered left, then left again, reversing course in an ugly erratic turn, his legs brushing the water.

"Which way?" he gasped, struggling to regain a few feet of alt.i.tude.

This way.

Tink flitted ahead, flashing brightly so Peter could follow.

Can you go higher?

"No."

Grimly, Peter focused on following the tiny streaking light ahead, trying to ignore the agonizing pain in his muscles and the water just below him. He tried not to think about how far they were from the island. Too far, he knew, as his toes brushed the sea. He would not be able to stay aloft for all those miles.

"Tink," he gasped, "I can't keep flying."

Yes you can. You must.

"I can't."

Can you see the island?

With painful effort, Peter raised his head and saw the steep volcanic cone of Mollusk Island. It was directly in front of hima"but still much too far away. He would not make it.

"I see it, buta""

Keep flying toward it. Don't stop flying!

"I don't thinka""

But he was talking to no one. Tink was gone, a tiny darting light now far ahead, leaving him alone just a few feet over the dark water.

Peter gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep going, trying to ignore the throbbing that convulsed his entire body. He flew for five minutes, ten, fifteen, raising his head every minute or so to check his course. He was getting closer, but he knew he would not make it to the island in his pain-weakened state.

Time and again his feet, then his shins, touched the water. Finally, he could fly no more. As he settled into the sea, he felt the warm water cover the length of his body, swallowing him; as it reached his neck, he made a few feeble attempts to swim, but his pain and fatigue were too great. He slipped beneath the surface and started to sink, staring up at the water turned golden green by the bright moon, which wobbled above him, growing dimmer as he descended into the depths, almost grateful that the pain would soon be gone.

But it did not go. In fact, it got worse, and Peter, barely conscious now, sensed that this was because he was movingaupward. He felt himself burst through the surface, coughing water and gulping sweet salt air into his burning lungs. Tink was zipping about his head, asking over and over if he was all right, but he could not speak, only cough and gasp, cough and gaspaand wonder what had brought him up?

Then he felt the tightness around his chest and looked down to see a pair of strong, pale arms around him, hands interlocked in front. Then he heard a familiar voicea"not with his ears but in his minda"say his name, and he knew who his rescuer was.

Teacher, he said, not aloud but with his mind.

Yes, answered the mermaid.

Thank you, he said.

Don't thank me, said Teacher. Thank Tink.

That's right, said Tink, who had never been happy about the mermaid's obvious fondness for Peter.

"Thanks, Tink," Peter gasped.

Propelled by graceful thrusts of Teacher's powerful tail, Peter shot through the water. Within a half hour he was stumbling ash.o.r.e on Mollusk Island. He collapsed on hands and knees in the sand, catching his breath. Then, despite the pain that still racked his body, he stood up, intending to get to the Mollusk village as quickly as he could. Head down, he stumbled forward a few feet, and then with a moan, fellainto the strong arms of Fighting Prawn. The Mollusk chief had just trotted out of the jungle, followed by two warriors.

"Lie down," said Fighting Prawn, setting Peter gently onto the soft sand.

"How did you knowa"" Peter began.

"Your bright little friend," said Fighting Prawn, pointing to Tink, who glowed radiantly. "She sent the mermaids around to fetch us."

"Out there," Peter said, pointing toward the sea. "Canoes. They shot me with an arrow. There werea""

"In a moment," said Fighting Prawn. "First let me see your wound."

By the bright moonlight, Fighting Prawn examined Peter's thigh. There was a thin, straight red line in the skin, apparently caused by the side of the pa.s.sing arrowhead; the flesh around it was swollen and purple.

Fighting Prawn frowned, then grunted something to the warriors, one of whom turned and sprinted into the jungle.

"He will bring the medicine woman," Fighting Prawn said to Peter. "You will do what she says and swallow what she tells you to swallow, no matter how bad it tastes."

"Yes," said Peter.

"You are very fortunate, Peter. Had the arrow pierced you directly, you would be dead now. To be honest, you should be anyway; very few people survive any dose of Scorpion poison."

Peter hung his head.

"I shouldn't have gone out there," he said.

"No, you shouldn't have," agreed Fighting Prawn. "But since you did, tell me what you saw."

"Canoes," Peter said. "More than a hundred of them."

"Which direction, and how far out?"

"That way," said Peter, pointing. "They're probably about twenty miles away by now."

"They will be here at dawn," said Fighting Prawn. He stood and looked out to sea. "You did well, disobeying me," he said. "I expected them to come from the west, but they circled around, intending to surprise us. They won't surprise us now. Though in the end I don't know how much difference it will make."

Peter looked up, surprised; he had never heard Fighting Prawn sound so uncertain.

The Mollusk chief turned to the remaining warrior and, with the tone of confident command back in his voice, grunt-clicked an order. Then he turned back to Peter.

"He will stay with you until the medicine woman gets here," he said. "I must go and redeploy the warriors. We must prepare to defend our island."

He turned and ran back into the jungle, leaving Peter and Tink with the warrior on the beach, all three of them looking out to sea toward the unseen enemy coming toward them.

CHAPTER 12.

ST. NORBERT'S THE CAB, PULLED BY A LOWLY OLD NAG with a swayback and heavy hooves, moved down a rutted muddy lane lined with trees, their gnarled black branches reaching like skeleton arms into the rainy sky, which had turned from sunny to dark in an instant.

"Do you think we'll learn anything?" Molly said, peering doubtfully out the cab window. "All we have is the date from the newspaper articles. I'm worried that we'll need more than that."

"We have money," George said, patting his pocket. "My father says money can loosen tongues faster than all the chocolate in the world. You remember the cabdriver in Salisbury? A few quid went a long way with that one."

"Yes, it did. Still, I hate to have you spend your own money on this."

"Don't be silly," said George. "It's actually Father's money, and I rather enjoy spending it."

Molly smileda"her first smile of the day. But it faded quickly as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a rusted iron gate, each of its two sagging halves bearing the letter S wrapped snakelike around the letter Na"the insignia of St. Norbert's Home for Wayward Boys. Beyond the gate, past a gravel drive that was more mud than gravel, loomed a ma.s.sive gray stone structure with a slate roof in such poor repair that it appeared ready to slide off.

As Molly and George got out of the cab, the drizzle turned to a downpour. Molly lifted the hood of her cloak, and George tugged up the collar to his overcoat.

George, handing the fare to the driver, said, "Two hours."

"Aye, Guv'nor," said the driver. "But I can't imagine why two fine young people like you would want to spend two hours in that place." He nodded toward the building. "Ain't nothing in there but sorrow, you mark my words."

"You wait for us!" George repeated.

The cabbie nodded again, his bowler spraying water from the rim, and gently flicked the reins, sending the old swayback horse back down the skeleton-lined lane.

Picking their way among the many mud puddles, Molly and George walked up the driveway to the ma.s.sive oak door of St. Norbert's. There was an iron door knocker, but it was broken; so George pounded the door with his fist. After a wait of a minute or so, they heard the sound of a bolt sliding, and the door swung open to reveal a bent-over man with a two-day growth of gray beard.

"What do you want?" he complained. His eyes were bloodshot and constantly moving.

"My name is Molly McBride," said Molly. "This is George, uma"

George, seeing Molly's hesitation, stepped in. "GeorgeaChesteraMaybeckaDooling," he said, causing both Molly and the man to raise their eyebrows. He held out his hand. "And you, sir, area"

"My name's Grempkin," said the man, ignoring George's hand. "I'll ask again: what do you want?"

"We'd like to meet with the director," said Molly.

"Would you, now," said Grempkin.

"We've come all the way from London," said George, following the plan he and Molly had worked out. "There's been a tragedy in Miss McBride's familya"her parents, you seea"and some information has come to light that suggests, strange as it seems, that a relative of hers may be here. At St. Norbert's."

Grempkin's eyebrow arched high into his hairline. "A relative, is it?"

"Possibly," said Molly.

Grempkin took a closer look at Molly and George, both dressed in the manner of people who come from families with money. He tried to smile, but since he was not used to smiling, what he produced was more of a grimace. When he spoke again his tone was considerably more welcoming.

"Well, now," he said. "Why don't you come in from the rain, and I'll take you to the headmaster."

The foyer smelled musty, as though no door or window had been opened in years, as if the sun had never shone into this place. From somewhere up the enormous wooden staircase came the cry of a boy, and then a long groan. From somewhere else came the sound of vicious barking.

Grempkin led Molly and George down a long corridor lit by hissing gas lamps. He stopped at an office door with faded lettering that announced that its occupant was MR. CHALMERS GREYSTOKE, HEADMASTER. Grempkin knocked and was summoned inside.

Greystoke, a thin-lipped man with a pinched, pale face, sat behind an ancient desk covered with a formidable layer of dust. He did not appear busy, but he also did not appear to be pleased by the interruption.

"Master Greystoke," said Grempkin, "this young lady has reason to believe she has a relative here at St. Norbert's. And since these young people seem to be from fine families"a"here Grempkin arched his eyebrows to make sure Greystoke got the pointa""I thought you'd want to talk to them."

"Of course," said Greystoke, his nostrils flaring at the aroma of money. Molly and George introduced themselvesa"again using the false names, although George got his in a different ordera"and Grempkin, after excusing himself, left the room.

"So you believe your relative is at St. Norbert's," said Greystoke, looking at Molly.

"Possibly," said Molly. "His father and mothera"my mother's cousina"went missing twelve years ago, and we believe their infant son was brought here."

"And the name?" said Greystoke.

"I don't know the infant's name," said Molly. "It wasn't in the newspaper articles. But the father's surname was Pan."

At the mention of the name, Greystoke's eyes widened just a bit. He hesitated, his eyes darting from Molly to George.

"Unfortunately," he said, "I cannotathat is, our policy is not to divulge specific information of that nature about our charges unless certain, ah, procedures are followed."

George nodded, stood, reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of currency. "I was charged by Miss McBride's solicitor to defray any legal expenses necessitated by this inquiry," he said. "Would this be sufficient?"

George set the stack of bills on the desk and sat down. Greystoke quickly swept the money into his top drawer, along with a puff of dust.

"Mrs. Wilson!" he called, so loudly that both Molly and George jumped in their seats. An elderly woman appeared from a side room.

"The Pan boy," Greystoke said. "Twelve years back. Parents went missing. Terrible thing."

"Yes, sir. I remember it well."

"Get me his file," he said, giving Mrs. Wilson what Molly thought was an odd look.

She returned with a file so quickly that Molly wondered if it was actually the right file Greystoke was now consultinga"or if they showed the same file to every inquisitive visitor. Greystoke muttered to himself, then shut the folder. He laid it on his desk, sending up a small dust cloud.