“Yes, yes, caution and all that,” Sir Tode cut him off. “We knights have many virtues, but patience is not one of them. We’re in the middle of a desert with no supplies, no map, and no clue where we’re headed—sounds like the exact right moment to me!” He took a gentler, more persuasive tone. “And admit it, aren’t you the least bit curious about what those other two pairs can do?”
The truth was, Peter hadn’t stopped wondering about that since the morning they weighed anchor. He had already used the golden eyes—but what of the black and green pairs? He reached into his sack and removed the wooden box. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, running his fingers over the lid. “I mean, we’d only be using them to help someone.”
“That’s more like it!” Sir Tode clopped up next to him. “Now which pair are you thinking?”
Peter knelt down and unfastened the lock. He smiled, remembering how his entire body had thrilled when he first touched those golden eyes that night in the alley. He ran his hands over the other pairs, hoping to feel a trill or flicker—some clue telling him what to do. But he felt nothing. The eyes might as well have been made of stone.
Peter sat back, slightly frustrated. His instincts, which had so often guided him through dangerous spots, remained in this moment maddeningly silent. He reached into the box and scooped up the shiny black eyes. “How about these?” he said, feeling their slick, grainless texture.
Sir Tode watched with eager anticipation. He braced himself as Peter untied the bandage around his head and brought the eyes closer. It was at about this time that a sense of foreboding began to creep into the knight’s consciousness. He thought back on Professor Cake’s words. There was no question that the wise old man meant Peter well; would he trouble himself with a warning unless there was good cause? What if, like the golden pair, these eyes whisked his friend to some other distant place? What if he vanished completely, leaving Sir Tode to fend for himself?
“Hold up, Peter,” the knight started. “Perhaps I was a bit rash just then . . .”
“Don’t try and stop me now,” the boy cut him off. “And you might want to stand back.” Before his friend could object further, Peter slipped the cold, black eyes into his sockets and blinked twice.
All at once, he felt water rushing through his head. The sound swelled to a deafening roar, drowning out his every thought. Peter clapped both hands against his ears, trying to contain the churning and splashing inside his skull. He collapsed to the ground, but the grains of sand felt red-hot against his skin. The boy opened his mouth to scream, but all the air had been sucked from his lungs, leaving only a suffocating vacuum. Over the din, he could hear Sir Tode calling out. The boy convulsed mutely on the sand, unable to reply, unable to stand. He had no idea what was happening—but he was certain it was about to kill him.
The next moment, Peter felt a sharp crack! against the back of his crown. The blow was so hard it seemed to jar the air back into his lungs, and a few seconds later he was on his hands and knees, gasping, but still alive.
“Wha . . . what happened?”
“I knocked those blasted things right out of your skull is what happened.” Sir Tode glared at the two black eyes lying on the sand. “They started changing you, Peter. Your entire body went all green and slimy, and your hands . . . I’ve never seen anything like it . . . and hope never to again.”
Peter massaged his swollen fingers back to life; they had gone completely numb the moment he had put in the eyes. His skin was clammy, and his spit had a brackish taint. He retied the bandage around his head and tottered to his feet. “Whatever was happening, it almost killed me.” He took a deep breath, tasting the warm desert air as it swelled into his lungs. Already he was beginning to feel more like his old self. He scooped up the two eyes from the sand, wiped them off, and placed them with the others.
Sir Tode watched him relock the box and tuck it back into his bag. “Peter, you don’t suppose the professor meant them to hurt—?”
“Of course not.” There was genuine shame in Peter’s voice. “The professor meant for me to use them wisely. He gave me strict instructions, and I ignored them.” The boy still had no idea what the remaining Fantastic Eyes were meant to do, but he knew he wouldn’t dare try them again until the time was right.
If possible, the hours following the encounter with the black eyes were even bleaker for Peter and Sir Tode. The sun only burned hotter. Their hunger only grew worse. Were it not for the professor’s wineskin, the weary travelers would have succumbed to the elements a dozen times over. Still, they forged on, moving in what they agreed was a generally eastward direction.
While traveling, the pair tried to piece together what they could about the Just Deserts. Other than wrecked boats and the occasional bird dropping, the landscape seemed to be completely empty. “If this is really a prison,” Sir Tode said, stopping for a rest, “then where are all the other people?”
“Dead, I suppose.” Peter uncapped the wineskin and poured a few drops on his neck and arms before offering the rest to his friend. “I’ve been thinking about something Officer Trolley said before. He mentioned a king . . . do you think that’s the ‘kings aplenty’ in the rhyme?”
“I don’t see why we can’t assume that,” Sir Tode said, settling into what little shade Peter’s thin frame provided. “But then I’m confused—if the king is in power, shouldn’t everyone be happy?”
“So maybe he’s an evil king? Or a monster king?” Here the boy shuddered. “Or a raven king?”
Sir Tode could sense the boy was growing uncomfortable with all this talk of monsters and ravens and decided to change the subject. “Fair enough, but the real mystery is who wrote the confounded thing.”
“It must be a poet or a great philosopher. Whoever he is, he can answer all of our questions when we find him.” Peter stood, wiping his sweat-covered brow. “Assuming we can make it that far.” He adjusted his burgle-sack around one shoulder and continued walking.
Night eventually fell in the Just Deserts. The sun tucked itself below the horizon, and the day’s heat was replaced by chilling cold. Peter and Sir Tode agreed they should seek shelter under one of the many boats beached along the endless shore. The knight picked a ship with the letters “BS’ JOY” scrawled across what remained of her stern, the rest no doubt lost in an encounter with Officer Trolley’s axe.
Once settled, the pair set to building a fire. Sir Tode went off to scrounge for scrap wood while Peter busied himself with lighting a punk. This was a relatively simple job, for Peter, being a smart thief, always kept a kit of thieving essentials in his bag—including a small piece of flint. In case you have never needed to build a fire in the middle of a desert, flint is a magical black stone that creates sparks when struck against something hard. A punk is any object that is used to hold a red ember for the purpose of lighting firecrackers or pipes. In this instance, Peter was using a dried locust husk that he had found in the sand. Sir Tode returned, dragging a netful of wood scraps by his teeth. Within half an hour they had a crackling bonfire.
“Well, that was a miserable day,” the knight said, limping to Peter’s side. “And we’re no closer to getting out of here than when we started.” He yawned and curled himself into a little ball against the boy’s feet, a habit he had acquired during their sea voyage.
Peter lay in silence, listening to the fire and trying not to think about food. For a moment, he thought he heard sounds in the distance—footsteps and whispers. He sat up to listen more closely, but he heard only the wind.
“You don’t suppose there’s something out there?” Sir Tode said, reading his friend’s alarm. “Some terrible fiend stalking the sands?”
“Who knows?” Peter said, settling back in. “There’s no use worrying about it. We’re alone for now, and we need all the rest we can get if we plan to survive that sun tomorrow.” And with that, he extinguished the fire and went to sleep.
Sadly, Peter could not have been more misguided. For crouched not ten feet away from
them was just such a fiend.
CHAPTER NINE
POOR OLD SCABBS
Peter woke in the middle of the night to the sound of someone rustling through his bag—which he happened to be using as a pillow. In half a heartbeat, the great thief was on his feet. “Don’t move!” he said, drawing his fishhook.
“Please, no!” a voice whimpered. “Don’t hurt Poor Old Scabbs!” The prowler had good reason for alarm: Peter’s blade was resting on his throat.
“I could kill you if I wanted,” Peter said, pushing the point into the prowler’s skin.
“No! Poor Old Scabbs is harmless, he is!” By now the man (whose name was, in fact, Old Scabbs) had dropped to his knees and was trying his best to grovel at Peter’s feet—a difficult thing to do with something sharp against your throat. “It was terrible wrong of Poor Old Scabbs sneaking about so! He meant no harm but to sit at the warm bonnie-fire. Pecked to pieces, if he’s lying!”
Peter turned over the man’s palm, feeling the red T branded into his flesh. It was the same mark that Officer Trolley had planned to burn into his own hand. “You think I can’t tell a thief when I meet one?” he said.
The old man snatched his arm back. “T for thief, says you? . . . T for tricked, says I!” He clutched his hand close to his chest.
Peter listened to the man’s sniveling and decided he posed no immediate threat. “Get up,” he said, lowering his weapon.
Bowing and thank-you-ing, the stranger staggered to his feet. “Sweet, trustful LittleBoy,” he said. “Poor Old Scabbs’ll just go on his way now—”
“Not quite yet.” Peter nudged Sir Tode with his foot. “Wake up. We have a prowler.”
“A prowler?!” The knight jolted awake, half yawning, half snarling. It took him a moment before he could fully comprehend Peter’s meaning, but when he laid eyes on Old Scabbs, the situation became clear. “Coward! Thought you could get the jump on us? Attack us in our sleep? Well, think again!” He gave a few sharp snaps at the man’s feet to prove his mettle. “Admit it! You were trying to steal the Fantastic Ey—”
“Quiet!” Peter interrupted. “Just check my bag and make sure the box is safe.”
Sir Tode dug his snout through the sack. “Everything seems in order—but what’s this?” He emerged holding a round stone in his teeth.
Peter took the rock, hefting it in his palm. He recognized it instantly as a crude decoy. “He must have slipped it in my bag so I wouldn’t notice something had gone missing.” But what had Old Scabbs swapped it for? Instead of sorting through all his supplies, Peter thought it might be faster just to search the prowler’s person. He tossed the rock aside and pulled the old man closer to inspect him with both hands.
Old Scabbs was, by anyone’s standards, one of the most miserable fellows who had ever lived. A ridiculously curved spine left him just a hair short of four feet tall. His knees, arms, toes, fingers, and hair were all knotted and gnarled. After so many years in the Just Deserts, most of his regular clothes had long rotted away. Patches of matted body hair sprouted in all directions from his malnourished frame. His toenails and fingernails were thick and curled, not having been clipped in years. His skin felt clammy up to the neck—only his leathery, sunburned face betrayed the fact that he had been living in a desert.
When Peter’s fingers reached Old Scabbs’s mouth, they found it tightly shut. “Open,” Peter commanded in his sternest voice.
“No, no, no,” the man muttered, his jaw clenched tight. “It’s all Poor Old Scabbs is got. LittleBoy’s not takin’ it from him.”
Being a master thief, the boy was well aware of all the best places to hide stolen goods. “He’s got something in his mouth, I can smell it.”
Sir Tode gave a menacing growl. “So cut it open.”
“No!” the old man pleaded through pursed lips. “KittyPet must believe Old Scabbs! He don’t got nothing stolen in his mouth! He swears it!”
“Then prove it!” Peter said, kicking him in the shin for emphasis. He did not like bullying old men, but he couldn’t be too careful—for all he knew, there were a hundred more thieves lurking in the darkness, and if he and Sir Tode failed to look mean enough, they were as good as dead.
“Owww!” Old Scabbs howled, clutching his leg.
“Answer honestly if you don’t want another one,” Peter said. “What did you take?”
The old man finally gave up. “Forgive Poor Old Scabbs! He was looking to burgle the bag, it’s true, and he’s terrible sorry. But he was only wanting a little nibble.” He dug into his matted beard, fishing out a single lemon.
Peter and Sir Tode inspected the stolen article. They had both assumed he was after treasure, or weapons, or wine. “He risked his life . . . for a lemon?” Sir Tode said, puzzled.
Peter took the fruit from the man’s open palm. “He’s clearly mad.”
Old Scabbs collapsed at Peter’s feet. “Oh, LittleBoy have mercy on Poor Old Scabbs! Just let him have one wee bite . . . for his lucky tooth!” And with this he stretched his mouth wide for them to see. The man had been telling the truth; his mouth was completely empty save a single brown tooth in the front row. “It’s the only one he’s got left, and he needs to keep it good ’n’ healthy!” He clutched Peter’s leg. “Please, LittleBoy!” He was barely intelligible through his sobs. “All he asks is one bitty drop!”
“I’m not sure I follow.” Sir Tode wrinkled his snout. “What good would a drop of lemon do your tooth?”
Those of you who are asking the very same question have clearly never been pirates or buccaneers. If you had been, then you would know that lemons and other citrus fruits are used to defend against a nasty disease called “scurvy.” Scurvy comes from a lack of a magical vitamin that prevents one’s teeth from rotting away during ocean voyages, which is why they call it “Vitamin Sea.” Sailors are prone to this disease because, as you may know, lemons and oranges do not grow in the ocean. For this reason, citrus fruits are a precious commodity aboard boats, worth even more than gold.
Though the Just Deserts were not on the ocean, they too were rather isolated and thus devoid of Vitamin Sea, so most all of the prisoners had indeed lost their teeth to scurvy. Poor Old Scabbs had been fortunate enough to kill a man for a jug of orange juice several years before, and by rationing it carefully, he had been able to keep his one remaining tooth alive. This tooth conferred a great deal of status upon Old Scabbs and made many of the other prisoners quite jealous.
But like so many things in life, orange juice fades, and eventually Poor Old Scabbs’s tooth started acting up again. The man was so terrified of losing his last denticle that he had tried sewing it into place with a needle and thread. That, however, only made things worse, leaving the tooth enmeshed in a knot of decaying black twine.
Now, Peter—having been raised in a port town—knew all about how important Vitamin Sea was. Because of this, he had taken care to pack a lemon or two before sailing off on his quest and wasn’t eager to give them up, no matter how much the miserable man groveled.
“Have mercy!” the miserable man groveled. “Poor Old Scabbs’ll do anything LittleBoy asks!”
Peter paused for a moment. This old thief was the only other person they had met since fleeing Officer Trolley, and there was no question they could use an ally in these treacherous sands. Perhaps the boy could turn this encounter to his advantage? “All right,” he said. “We’ll share some of our lemon with you. But you’ll have to give us something in exchange.”
“What can Old Scabbs give, says you? Why, he’s got nothing to give.”
“We only want your help. How long have you lived in this place?” Peter asked.
“Can’t hardly call it living. Poor Old Scabbs was sent to the Just Deserts ten years ago. Punished for what terrible wrong he done to them little ones.” And here his face fell with shame. “Poor Old Scabbs is bad, bad, bad . . .”
“What in heaven’s name did you do?” Sir Tode pressed.
But Old Scabbs would share no det
ails; he just repeated, “Terrible wrong . . . terrible, terrible wrong . . .”
Peter didn’t want the old man to lose focus. “And you’ve been wandering here all those years since? You must know these deserts well.”
“Why, Old Scabbs knows them like the warts on his head!” he said, eager to please. “There’s not a grain of sand that’s not a friend to him.” Saying this, he took up a handful of sand and started petting it.
“Good,” Peter said, putting away his fishhook. “Then you shall be our guide. And if you help us, I’ll give you the whole lemon.”
At these words, the old man’s eyes welled up with tears. “Yes, yes! LittleBoy won’t be sorry, says I! Old Scabbs’ll be a guide straight and true—he’ll take right proper care of LittleBoy and his KittyPet!”
“I am no man’s pet,” Sir Tode warned, but Old Scabbs was too busy trying to kiss Peter’s feet to heed him.
“Then we have a contract,” Peter said, holding out the lemon. “If you break your end of the bargain, I’ll call the Blight on your head. Do you understand?” Old Scabbs nodded furiously, snatching the fruit with both hands.
Peter figured that since they were already awake, they might as well get started. “Which way takes us out of the desert?”
“ ‘Out of the desert,’ says you?” their gnarled companion chuckled, as though this were a particularly witty joke. “And thieves say Old Scabbs is mad! Why, there ain’t no ‘out’ for such as us—unless LittleBoy counts the grave!” He burst into laughter. “Old Scabbs can guide him there no trouble!” He slid a finger across his neck to illustrate his meaning.
Sir Tode eyed the man with growing concern. “Peter, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about our guide.”
Peter reassured him, “He’s only kidding about that last part. Escape might be too hard for an old man like him, but I’ve never met a gate I couldn’t unlock. And if all else fails, we can just scale the wall.” He turned back to Old Scabbs. “Can you at least take us as far as the border?”