His body was overcome with an icy chill. Peter sank deeper and deeper below the surface, his mind growing murky. The last bubbles of air slipped from his mouth and nose, and he realized he would never again feel the warm sun or smell the sweet breeze or hear the patter of rainfall. But then, a faint voice sounded in his ears.
“Taaaallyyyy-hooooo!!!”
It was coming from somewhere high above. The cry grew louder and louder until it plunged into the water beside him. The next thing Peter knew, the voice—now a terrified, bubbling scream—was beside him. The stranger kicked against his head, frantically trying to swim free.
Whoever this new person was, he had iron shoes, and the jolt to Peter’s crown was enough to knock the fight back into him. Sensing someone so near struggling for life somehow gave Peter the overwhelming desire to live himself. He strove with every last whit of his strength to reach the air above. Grabbing hold of the stranger’s fur coat, the boy managed to climb his way back to the surface of the water.
“Release me, you brute!” the stranger snarled, kicking Peter’s ribs. “I didn’t come this far only to drown at your vile hands!”
Now, for those of you who have ever tried drowning another person, you will know it is far more difficult than books and ballads let on. No sooner does your victim’s head disappear underwater than he turns into a ferocious animal, scratching and biting to survive. This was the position Peter found himself in as he and the stranger both sputtered and spun across the tink-tinking surface of the water.
The boy could feel his strength flagging, and so he opted for diplomacy. “Wait,” he said, wriggling free from a headlock. “Fighting like this will drown us both—we’ve got to work together!”
The thin arm around Peter’s neck loosened its grip slightly. “And what, exactly, do you suggest?” the stranger said.
Peter kicked his legs, trying his best to keep both their heads above water. His companion was small, but unusually heavy. “First get rid of those shoes and that fur coat.”
“Ho! Very funny!” the voice spat back. “Any other dazzling ideas?”
“Just stay calm, and let me think,” Peter said, spitting out saltwater. He knew he had to act fast—he was still cold, his legs were getting tired, and he wouldn’t be able to keep afloat for much longer. Plus he was finding it rather hard to concentrate with the incessant tink-tinking of bottles everywhere. And that’s when the idea struck him. “The bottles!” he said. “Get as many as you can!”
Peter opened his burgle-sack, which was still slung around one shoulder, and shoved a bottle inside. He swept his arms across the surface of the water, grabbing hold of every bottle he could find and stuffing it into his sack. If he and the stranger gathered enough bottles together, they might be able to keep themselves afloat.
“By Jove, it’s working!” the stranger exclaimed, finally apprehending the plan. “What a brilliant—Ooh! There’s one to your right! Get it!” Peter couldn’t help but notice that most of the work was being left to him, but before long, he had completely filled the sack with bottles of all shapes and sizes. Their task completed, the two of them clung desperately to the makeshift buoy. “Righto,” the stranger said. “Now what?”
“Now we get out of here. Do you see any land nearby?”
“Of course I do . . . rather too much of it, I might add.”
Peter sighed. “You’re going to have to be a little clearer with me. I’m blind.”
“Oh, forgive me!” the stranger stammered. “I hadn’t realized . . . terribly sorry to hear it.” The stranger painted a picture of their surroundings. “It seems we’re in a basin of some sort at the bottom of a hollow. The walls are maybe thirty hands high. That deafening noise is the giant waterfalls pouring in from every direction.”
Waterfalls. So that was the sound he’d been hearing. Peter could now discern the individual rivers thundering down into the pool. Each seemed to rumble and churn with its own specific song. “Do you see an easy way up?” he asked.
“None, I’m afraid. There are some exposed roots ahead of us, but I don’t think I’ll be able to—” Before the stranger could finish, Peter began kicking them toward the edge, arms wrapped tightly around his float. He swam about twenty yards before his hand struck a rocky wall, veined with roots. The boy took hold and hoisted himself out of the water.
“Wait!” The stranger clung tightly to Peter’s pant leg. “Please don’t leave me . . . I’m afraid I’m not much of a climber.”
The boy sighed. Whoever this fellow was, he sure seemed helpless. “I need my hands to climb, so just hang on to my leg there,” he said, hoisting his bag over one shoulder. “And try not to fidget.”
Peter managed to scale to the top of the basin without too much trouble. The lattice of gnarled roots gave him good purchase, and the stranger—once out of the water—proved far lighter than he expected. In no time they both found themselves standing before a lush meadow that smelled faintly of cinnamon.
“What is this place?” Peter marveled, breathing the sweet air. The stranger had let go of him and was now crouched low to the ground, shivering. Peter reached down, offering to help him to his feet. “Sorry I tried to drown you,” he said.
“That’s quite all right.” The stranger backed away. “I appreciate the lift. That was some shrewd thinking with the bottles, there.”
Peter shrugged, emptying the sack at his feet. “I’m just glad it worked.” He was having a difficult time placing the stranger’s voice. It carried the bravado of a soldier, but was pitched in the high tenor of a maiden. “My name’s Peter. What’s yours?”
“You may call me . . . ,” the stranger enjoyed a dramatic pause, “Sir Tode.”
Peter tried to make sense of the information. “You said ‘Sir’ . . . but that would mean you’re a knight?”
“Of course I’m a knight,” Sir Tode shot back. “We’re not all steeds and flashing armor, you know . . . not anymore, at least.”
It is a fact that knights are notorious quarrelers, angered by even the slightest criticism. Peter knew this, and thought it best to keep clear of his wrath. “Oh, I meant no insult, sir!” he apologized. “It’s just, I’ve never met a real knight before.” The only knights Peter knew of were wealthy, fat men who ran trade routes and sat in governments. But Sir Tode sounded more heroic, like something from a fairy tale or nursery rhyme. Peter reached out his hand. “May I feel your face? Being blind, it’s the only way I can—”
“I’d rather you didn’t come any closer!” the knight growled. “I admire your inquisitive spirit, but I’m in no mood for petting.”
Petting? This stranger was definitely hiding something. And come to think of it, why would a knight need rescue from drowning? “Pardon me, Sir Tode . . . but aren’t knights trained to swim across moats and such things?”
“Indeed we are. However, I’m afraid I, er, can’t paddle very well at the moment. You see, I’m also sort of a . . . kitten.”
“You’re a talking cat?!” the boy exclaimed. Though he lived in a world with many strange things, talking animals were not among them. Peter, like all children, had always loved stories about cuddly, talking creatures. He also loved stories about knights. The idea that he was speaking to a cuddly, talking, knighted creature was almost too much to bear.
“I am a human knight,” Sir Tode corrected, “who has been trapped inside the body of a cat . . . and a horse.”
As uncanny as it may sound, this description was completely accurate. Once upon a time, Sir Tode had been a normal knight, frittering his life away with duels and damsels. One unfortunate evening, however, he and his noble steed made the mistake of quarreling with a stray kitten outside the window of a sleeping hag. Hags tend to be rude on the best of days, and their disposition is only worsened by lack of sleep. Without a moment’s consideration, the cranky old witch waved a dishrag out her window and said a magic word, turning Sir Tode, his horse, and the kitten into a single, ridiculous creature.
While there was i
ndeed something kittenish about him in size, Sir Tode’s delicate frame was encumbered by twitchy horse ears, a wispy tail, and a set of clumsy hooves. His face, which was also catlike, had been blessed with two scruffy eyebrows and a bushy gentleman’s mustache—a painful reminder of his lost distinction.
Peter struggled to comprehend what he’d just been told. “I guess that explains why you’re so small. And why you complained when I said to take off your coat and shoes.”
Sir Tode gave an irritated growl; Peter wasn’t the first person to find amusement in the diminutive knight’s affliction. “I’ll have you know, it’s only temporary. As soon as I track down the hag that hexed me, all shall be righted.”
“How long have you been searching for her?”
The knight gave a bitter sigh. “A lifetime,” he said. If Peter didn’t know better, he would have thought he heard a slight tremor in Sir Tode’s voice. But that was ridiculous—everyone knows knights are forbidden from crying.
Sir Tode had, in fact, been searching for several lifetimes. An unfortunate feature of his curse was that he could not age until the hex was lifted. With every year that he searched, the world grew up around him. Hags eventually became extinct, and Sir Tode was left to wander, alone and without hope. That is, until very recently, when hope came to him in the form of a chatty taverner who claimed to know of a cure. “Aye, cat!” the red-nosed, owly browed man had whispered. “Get ye to the isle that sits atop the world! It’s there ye’ll find just what you need . . . and what needs you!”
Ever since, Sir Tode had been sailing day and night in the hope of discovering this miraculous island. After a month at sea, his vessel reached the dread Ice Barrens, where it was seized by the most horrible storm he’d ever seen. He was tossed overboard and left clinging to a tiny plank of wood for his very life. The raging currents carried him farther and farther until finally they sent him right over the edge of a waterfall and onto Peter’s head.
Remembering all this put Sir Tode back in mind of his mission. He had been warned by the Taverner not to tarry, dawdle, or lollygag—and talking to inquisitive blind boys skirted dangerously close to all three. “If you’ll excuse me, I have much ground to cover before daybreak.”
“Wait!” Peter called after him. “I don’t even know where we are.”
“Nor I,” Sir Tode said over his shoulder. “Thanks again for the help back there. Good luck with . . . being blind.”
Peter was not so easily discouraged. He ran to catch up to the small knight. “Maybe we could walk together? It might be safer?”
Sir Tode gave an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I was given strict instructions to travel alone. And that is exactly what I intend to do.”
“But where are you traveling?” Peter asked.
“I’m not entirely sure. That Taverner told me to follow the Lode Star.” He squinted up at the constellations overhead. “But frankly, I don’t recognize this sky at all.”
While Sir Tode busied himself trying to get his bearings, Peter got an idea. “Sir Tode,” he said in his most ingratiating voice, “if you are truly a knight, then you must know all about the Knight’s Accord?”
There was a pause. “Of—of—of course I know about it!” Sir Tode blurted. “Why . . . I helped write the Knight’s Accordion!”
Peter smiled to himself. There was, of course, no such thing as a Knight’s Accord, because knights, being proud, rarely agreed on anything. If this Sir Tode was a knight, he certainly didn’t know the rules very well. Peter continued. “Then of course you’re aware that by the rules of the accord, if someone—a blind boy, for example—saves your life, you are required to grant him a single request?”
Sir Tode’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to make me be your pet, are you?”
“Of course not! Just, you know . . . a friend?”
At these words, the old knight’s mustache twitched ever so slightly. “Your friend?” The truth was, it had been many years since Sir Tode had known anyone who might consider him a friend. It was also true, now that he thought of it, that it was his sworn duty to protect the meek—and blind children were nothing if not meek. “Very well, little blind boy—”
“Peter,” he corrected. “Peter Nimble.”
“Very well, Peter Nimble. You saved my life earlier, and for that I am bound to grant you this single boon. I shall be your friend for the rest of the night, during which time you shall be permitted to travel alongside me until we reach either lodging or certain death. As my ward, you fall under my protection. Should we encounter any brigands or marauders or—”
His words were cut off by voices from behind the hill. “Hide!” Sir Tode said with a start. He bit down on Peter’s pant leg and dragged him to the ground.
The two of them lay flat in the dark grass, listening as the shouts came closer and closer.
“Make haste, Mr. Pound!” one of the voices called. “We mustn’t keep them waiting!”
Peter could tell there were two people—both sounded like men. One of them was young and strong; the other seemed much, much older.
“Is anyone there?!” the younger voice called out. “Hullooooooo?!”
Peter hesitated. “Wait a minute, I think I recognize that voice . . .”
“Shhh!” Sir Tode hissed. “Do you want us to get marauded?!”
“They’re by the lake, Professor!” the voice spoke again. “I heard the lad just now!”
At these words, Sir Tode looked up. “Goodness, you’re right. He does sound familiar. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was . . .”
Sir Tode saw a man appear over the meadow, holding a firefly-lantern. The light shone soft against his countenance, revealing a crooked red nose and pair of owlish eyebrows. “Ah! There you are!” the man said with a hearty laugh.
“The Haberdasher!” Peter gasped.
“The Taverner!” Sir Tode gogged.
Indeed they were both right, for Peter’s Haberdasher and Sir Tode’s Taverner were one and the same. The man’s marvelous hats were nowhere to be seen, and his flashy coat and tails had been replaced with a habit and cowl. “Well done, Alistair,” he said, offering a hand to the boy. “You certainly didn’t waste any time in getting here.”
Peter scrambled away from him. “Who are you really? And where have you brought us?” His fists were balled, ready to fight.
The man remained still, unmoved by the threat. “My name is Mr. Pound. As for bringing you here, I can hardly take credit for that. It was all the professor’s doing!”
“The what?” Peter said.
A second man hobbled through the meadow to join them. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Peter.” His voice had a cobwebby quality, and he smelled of stale gingerbread. “Mr. Pound is too modest for his own good. It wasn’t all my doing . . . only mostly.”
“Who are you?” Peter demanded. “And how do you know my name?”
The old man chuckled. “I am Professor Cake. This is my island. And I know quite a bit more than just your name, Peter Nimble.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE TROUBLESOME LAKE of PROFESSOR CAKE
Peter woke to the whistling of a kettle. He was lying in a grassy hammock that was rocking gently in the breeze. He was dry and clean. Someone had removed the golden eyes from his sockets and put a fresh bandage around his head. Likewise, his tattered clothes had been replaced with new ones—cut just like his old rags, but made from sturdy cloth with fine stitching. Peter swung his leg off the hammock and carefully reached for the floor. He got up and felt his way around the room, taking in the surroundings. He was standing on an open deck that seemed to be supported by two giant tree branches. The kettle that had woken him was boiling on a cast-iron stove, which groaned gently in the corner. Peter couldn’t tell how long he’d slept; the air smelled like night, yet his skin felt a great radiance prickling against it.
“That’s the moon,” Professor Cake explained, shuffling down a wooden staircase. “She hangs a bit lower in
these parts of the world.”
Peter turned his face to the heavens. He had always been able to feel moonlight, but never this strongly. He could almost taste it shining down through the canopy of leaves. The old man hushed the kettle and set to making tea. “You certainly were tired. Slept clear through the day.”
Peter felt the stiffness in his joints that comes from a long, restorative slumber—a rare sensation for him. “I didn’t mean to be a bother,” he said.
The old man clucked, waving off the apology. “I can’t say I blame you, child. With the skies so close, the sun can become quite overwhelming. I much prefer nights myself—the world takes on greater dimensions when obscured by shadow.” Peter had never seen a shadow, but thought he understood the professor’s meaning; he had more than once reflected on the secret pleasure of being awake while the town lay sleeping.
The professor led Peter to a dusty wingback chair and handed him a mug of mulled tea. The boy sat and took in what details he could about his host. Professor Cake was a hunched old man with a voice as knotted as his knuckles. His shuffling steps were punctuated by the tap of his cane, which was made from ostrich spine. His musty suit was muffled by several layers of long coats, and the boy could hear a small pocket watch ticking somewhere inside the folds of his vest. The man’s scent reminded Peter of the eyes, and he wondered what had become of them.
“They’re on the floor, beside your feet,” the professor said, settling into a chair. “I had Mr. Pound fish the box out from the lake this morning. The hinges squeak a bit now, but nothing to bleat about.”
Peter reached down to find the box waiting for him. He marveled at how this strange man seemed able to hear his very thoughts, just like the Haberdasher.
“I should hope so,” the professor said with a chuckle. “I am, after all, the one who taught him how. Mr. Pound is my apprentice. It was his job to deliver the eyes to you. My apologies for the whole traveling-salesman charade, but I had to make certain you were the boy I had in mind.”