But however slow their progress, progress it remained. The tiny green bottle never stopped its song, and the steady wind guided them ever forward, past the fringes of the known world to the great, unmapped waters of possibility. The change of setting was subtle, and they did not fully notice it until a certain dark night when they were paid a visit by a dogfish named Frederick.
The two travelers were sleeping soundly beneath the starry sky when a fishy voice whispered from the water.
“Hey! Psst!” it said, nudging the boat.
Peter leapt up, grabbing his baguette. “Who goes?!”
“Sorry to wake you, mate. I was hoping you could spare a tick to help out a fish in need?”
“A what?” Peter could have sworn the voice said fish.
“Down here, in the water. The name’s Frederick. Frederick the Dogfish.”
“Fish don’t talk,” Peter insisted, still too groggy to realize he was no longer in charted seas.
“Well, I’m talkin’, ain’t I?” The dogfish chortled. “Me and pretty much everything else that swims ’round these parts . . . except maybe the krill. Dumb as dinghies, they are.”
This gave Peter pause. He had encountered so many impossible things since his journey began that he couldn’t rule out a talking fish, no matter how absurd it seemed. “Where are we?” he asked.
“Edge of the world, mate. Deepest waters there is.”
“The edge of the world,” Peter murmured, recalling the inkless void on the professor’s map. He sniffed the night air, catching a faint mustiness, like the waft of yellowed pages. Maybe the fish was right? Maybe this place was different?
Frederick continued, somewhat impatient. “Look, I need your help with something real quick, then I promise to leave you be.” Peter listened as the dogfish sloshed to one side. Then he heard a loud clank against the edge of the boat. “I got this hook in my cheek and I can’t seem to shake it,” he said.
Peter reached out his hand to discover a long metal barb. “It’s awful big,” he said.
“An’ that’s just the tip! See, I was out swimming near some murky port and I spot this big old cow just floating in the water, right? Well, of course I take me a little nibble, and next thing I know—whammo!—I got this whopper of a hook in my mouth. Ruddy thing’s stuck clean through my cheek.”
A cow? Peter wondered just how big this fish was. Still, his instincts were pushing him toward compassion. “So you want help pulling it out?” he said, inching closer.
The action was interrupted by a sudden scream. “Ahhh!” Sir Tode cried, dragging Peter back from the boat’s edge. “Shoo, beast! You’ll find no midnight snack here!”
The knight had woken only the moment before to see Peter reaching into the mouth of the most enormous dogfish imaginable. Frederick was the size of three elephants, maybe four. Each of his bulging fish eyes was bigger than a meat pie, and just one of his great floppy ears could have covered their tiny boat like a blanket. Poking out from his scaly cheek was a huge silver fishhook longer than a man’s arm. “He’ll swallow the boat whole!” Sir Tode exclaimed as he shinnied up the mast. “Begone, vile monster!”
“Aw, calm down, mate. I weren’t gonna eat no one. I was just hopin’ to . . .” and here Frederick’s words trailed off. “Just forget about it. Sorry for waking you.” He hung his giant head (if fish can indeed hang their heads) and swished back out into the darkness.
Peter leapt to his feet. “Frederick, wait!” he called.
“Shhh!” the knight hissed. “He’s almost gone!”
Peter quite literally put his foot down. “Sir Tode, I’m captain of this ship, and I say we help him. You of all people should know what it feels like to be judged by appearances.” There was a long silence between the two of them. Despite his lack of eyes, Peter was staring the poor knight down. Finally, Sir Tode relented, grumbling something about waste of time and respecting one’s elders.
The boy hailed Frederick, who swam back, tail swashing behind him. All told, it took them nearly an hour to remove the jagged hook from the fish’s enormous mouth. “Bloody gill!” Frederick cursed when they finished. “Feels good to get that out—thing tasted somethin’ awful! I tell you, that’s the last time I go swishin’ around them giants’ ports.”
“Giants’ ports?” Sir Tode said, glancing out over the dark waves.
“No worries, furball. Those waters is nowhere you can get to. And it’s a good thing, too—they don’t take kind to littles floating about. No, seas ’round here is more full of leviathans, turtles, blood eels . . . and now one grateful dogfish.”
“All those things live here?” Peter said, straining to hear giant fins moving in the water below. He reasoned that any place with talking dogfish might also contain other wonders. “You don’t happen to know if there used to be a kingdom in these waters?” he asked. “It had a big, fancy palace that vanished.”
“Don’t know about a kingdom, mate, but there’s definitely some good coral a few dives thataway . . . or was it thisaway?” He swished in a circle, nearly capsizing the boat.
Peter steadied himself on the rocking deck. “That’s all right,” he said, reasoning that any fish careless enough to get stuck with a hook was probably not too good with directions. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“Don’t mention it, mate,” Frederick said. “You pair ever need a favor, I’d be glad to lend a fin.”
“Oh, splendid!” Sir Tode muttered. “I don’t suppose you have a mailing address?”
“Nah, just ask around for Good Ol’ Frederick. You do that, I’ll find you all right. Thanks again!” And with that, Frederick the enormous dogfish turned around and disappeared beneath the surface.
Peter and Sir Tode sat in silence, contemplating what had just transpired. “Well, Peter,” the knight said at last. “It seems I owe you an apology.”
The boy shrugged, wiping his hands dry. “Sometimes it’s best not to judge people for being different.”
Sir Tode gave an exasperated groan. “I meant about it being a waste of time.” He tapped the fishhook lying on the deck. “It appears that you just won yourself a sword.”
Peter picked up the hook, noting its balance. He gripped the eye loop in one hand and ran his other across the curved barb, which tapered into a perfect point. He swiped the blade in the air—it responded with a pure ringing sound that sent a prickle along his arm. “It appears so,” he said, suppressing a smile.
And that is how Peter Nimble acquired the silver fishhook from the land of Gog and Magog, where no man has—or ever will—set foot.
As it happened, Frederick the Dogfish had been right about Peter and Sir Tode being close to dry land.
Very dry land.
Sir Tode was the first to make the discovery. He had just awoken from a fitful night’s sleep—the result of some particularly strong winds. Morning had since broken, and the knight was enjoying a good stretch when he noticed something strange: the Scop was not moving. In fact, no matter how he wriggled his body, the dripping vessel remained completely still. He rolled over, shook himself dry, and climbed the mast for a better view at his surroundings. What he saw made him gasp aloud.
“Peter?” he said hoarsely. “I—I think you should wake up now.”
The boy, who had slept horribly during the previous night’s storm, was not pleased at the suggestion. “Get up yourself,” he muttered, pulling a blanket over his ears.
Sir Tode gave him a hoof to the rib. “Peter!” he repeated. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“The sea . . . It’s totally disappeared.”
By this point, Peter had noticed that the ship wasn’t rocking like usual. Also missing was the familiar sound of waves lapping against the prow. He reached a hand over the edge of the boat and found not water but dry, hot sand. “Last night’s storm must have washed us ashore,” he said.
“I don’t think you’re listening,” Sir Tode insisted. “We couldn’t have been washed ashore because there i
s no shore. There’s just sand—miles and miles of it.” However unlikely this sounded, his description was accurate. The Scop was surrounded by dunes that stretched out in every direction without interruption. The knight swallowed hoarsely. “Why, it’s almost as though—”
“The seas withdrew.” Peter said these words with him. This was, of course, a line from the riddle and possible evidence that they had at last reached their destination.
“The Vanished Kingdom!” Peter shouted, clambering overboard.
“The Vanished Kingdom!” Sir Tode called, leaping after him.
The two ran circles around the boat, heaving armfuls of sand in the air like hot, granulated confetti. “We made it!” they cheered. “The Vanished Kingdom!”
This celebration, however, was cut short by a new voice. “All right, you lot!” it barked. “On your feet!” Peter couldn’t see that the voice belonged to a great, burly man wearing a ragged military uniform. Upon his head sat a gray moth-eaten barrister’s wig. He was marching straight for them. “Line up, nice and orderly! Let’s see them hands!”
“Sir Tode, be my eyes,” Peter whispered.
“It’s a man, a big man . . . and he has an even bigger axe.” The knight was not exaggerating. Strapped across the fellow’s back was an enormous, rusted battle-axe.
The man lumbered closer, reaching for his weapon. “I know you heard me say ‘on your feet,’ ” he repeated, “so’s I won’t bother repeating myself.”
Given the size of his weapon and relative proximity, Peter and Sir Tode thought it best to oblige. They scrambled to their feet, awaiting further orders. “Right,” the man said with a sniff. “Gather your things from the vessel—quickly now.” Peter found his burgle-sack in the bow and slung it over one shoulder.
“Step aside, please.” Peter and Sir Tode did as they were told. The moment they were clear, the man swung his axe and chopped the Scop clean in half.
Sir Tode gawked at their now-shipwrecked ship. “I say! You’d better have a bloody good explanation for that!”
The man grinned at them. “Can’t have you lot tryin’ to escape, can we?”
“Escape?” Peter protested. “I don’t understand.”
He gave a cruel snort. “Why, boy, you’ve landed yourselves in the Just Deserts. And you’re gonna be here for a long, long time.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRAPPED in the JUST DESERTS
Peter swallowed hard. “The what?” he said.
“The Just Deserts,” the man repeated smugly. “S’where rotten thieves and troublemakers get just what they desert.” Both Peter and Sir Tode knew he probably meant to say “deserve,” but thought better of correcting a stranger wielding an axe bigger than both of them put together. The man leaned close, inspecting Peter. His putrid breath nearly made the boy gag. “You’re a bit rosy-cheeked for a Missin’ One, so I’d wager you was a thief of some kind, right?”
“I—yes,” Peter answered, too taken aback to think up a good fib.
“S’what I thought.” He hocked up a bit of phlegm and spit it to the ground. “Now the king’s banished you here. That way you can’t muck up his kingdom, right?”
“Kingdom?” Sir Tode said, glancing around. “You don’t mean the Vanished Kingdom, by any chance?”
“I mean the king’s kingdom.” The man holstered his axe. “My name’s Officer Trolley. I’m royal warden of this here prison. S’my job to welcome newcomers and guard the coast, such as it is.” He led them over the next dune and stretched out his arm with pride.
“Goodness, Peter,” Sir Tode said, knowing his friend could not fully appreciate the view. “It appears we’re not the first ship he’s grounded.” Every few yards there lay the splintered remains of different boats. The wreckage was scattered across the desert as far as the eye could see.
“’Course you ain’t,” Officer Trolley said proudly. “I see to each ’n’ every vessel that comes in here. Otherwise, you lot might try to sneak off on us.” Through with small talk, Officer Trolley decided to move on with the proceedings. “All right, let’s get you processed. Hands out, please!”
He took a T-shaped branding iron from his belt and plunged the end into a miniature cauldron, which hung from one shoulder like a ladies’ handbag. “Tell you honest, s’been a while since I had the pleasure.” He grabbed hold of Sir Tode’s hoof and read him his rights:
“Under Authority Of His True Majesty Lord Incarnadine This Humble Servant Hereby Pronounces You Traitors To The True Crown Banishing You To The Just Deserts For The Full Duration Short Or Long Of Your Worthless Lives Barring Any Hope Of Relief Or Parole Amen.”
All of this was uttered in a single, impossible breath that left the listeners more than a little terrified.
Officer Trolley pulled his iron out from the cauldron. Peter could feel the heat radiating from the red-hot tip. He listened as the warden brought the brand toward Sir Tode’s foreleg. “I—I think there’s been some confusion, Officer Trollop!” the knight said, squirming. “You see, we’re on a quest! My friend here has been given six magical—”
Peter reached down and clapped Sir Tode’s mouth shut before he could say anything more. But it was too late. Officer Trolley released the knight and swung his iron beneath Peter’s nose. “Magical what?” he said with keen interest.
“Carpets!” Peter said, fibbing good and proper this time. “We were caught selling them on the streets.” He remembered Professor Cake’s warning about keeping the Fantastic Eyes a secret at all costs.
“Carpets, eh?” The officer rubbed his stubbly chin. “No wonder you lot been exiled—old magic’s banned all through the kingdom . . . along with most everything else.” He dropped the branding iron in the sand—it seemed a new idea was forming in his bewigged brain. He licked his lips and spoke in a sweeter voice. “You didn’t perchance try and smuggle any of them carpets out with you? Let’s have a look in that little bag of yours.”
Peter snatched his sack away before Trolley could take it. The burly man unholstered his axe once more. “Come on, hand it over. I’m only doin’ my official job.” In truth, Officer Trolley—being a selfish, underpaid employee of the king—could not care less whether or not the two had smuggled in magical artifacts. His real intent was getting his hands on a flying carpet and using it to escape back to the kingdom himself. You see, though Officer Trolley represented the law in the Just Deserts, he too was trapped: the place proved such an effective prison that not a single man, woman, or creature on either side of the law had ever managed to find a way out. And while it was true that he enjoyed his job well enough, there was only so much pleasure a man could derive from smashing newcomers’ boats and branding their hands. After nearly ten years, the novelty had worn off. “Now, show me them goods before I lose my patience,” he demanded, taking a step closer.
Peter and Sir Tode were backed up against an old skiff named Zelda and were fast running out of options. “What should we do?” Sir Tode asked through clenched teeth.
Peter at once recalled the professor’s admonition to trust his own instincts. What were his instincts telling him now? In this particular case, his instincts were telling him to run like blazes. And that is exactly what he decided to do. “Run!” he screamed. “Run like blazes!” They dived between Officer Trolley’s legs and sprinted as fast as their feet would carry them.
“Hey! That’s bad form!” the man shouted, stumbling after them. “Running’s against the rules!” As it turned out, Peter’s instincts were spot-on: Officer Trolley was a useless runner on account of his two wooden peg legs. How Sir Tode had failed to notice this before was a wonder, but it was a happy discovery for both of them as they fled over the hot dunes and out of sight. The brutish warden staggered, tripped, and cursed his way after them, falling hopelessly behind. Within a few minutes, they had run so far that the man’s angry complaints of “Bad form!” had completely faded away.
Even though Officer Trolley had said that no one could escape the Just Deserts, Peter and Si
r Tode were determined to try—for the sake of their mission, if not their own lives. If any of you have ever tried trekking through a sandy wasteland, you are well aware of how difficult it can be. Sand has a genuine knack for working its way in between the cracks of one’s toes and other sundry parts. This is all the more unpleasant when those bits of sand are hot to the touch, as was the case in the Just Deserts. The sun overhead seemed reluctant to move past noon, which left Peter and Sir Tode with little sense of their bearings. More than once they found themselves in a heated debate over whether they had already passed a particular weed or piece of wreckage.
“We can’t just walk in circles forever,” Peter said, kicking the sand in frustration. What few provisions he had salvaged from the Scop had long since been eaten, and were now replaced with a gnawing pain in his stomach. “If we don’t find food and shelter soon, we’ll die out here.” He rubbed his sunburned neck, which was already beginning to blister.
Hearing the distress in his companion’s voice, Sir Tode thought this might be a good time to broach a somewhat ticklish subject. “Peter?” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I’m all for slogging through this barren death trap on hoof, but have you considered that there might be a simpler way? Something to help us along?”
“You’re talking about the Fantastic Eyes.” Peter sighed. This wasn’t the first time his companion had brought them up; in fact, Sir Tode had spent much of their sea voyage dropping little hints about how much easier things might be were they to employ the gift Professor Cake had so kindly given them (“If you ask me, it’s downright ungrateful not to give the other pairs at least a test-blink!”). As you have undoubtedly noticed in your own life, unsolicited advice amounts to little more than criticism, and Peter had grown increasingly weary of these “suggestions.” He answered the same way he always did. “The professor said we shouldn’t try the other pairs until the moment was right. He told me—”