The man sniffled, wiping his tears. “The border, says you? A terrible dangerous place, says I. Still, Old Scabbs made a contract, so the border he’ll go!” He shook Peter’s hand, then pulled him close. When he spoke again, it was with chilling clarity. “But be warned, LittleBoy. You best put dreams of escape right out of your mind.” He cast a wild eye to the skies around him. “No one quits the Just Deserts . . . not even Them!”
Without another word, he released Peter’s hand and led the way into the night.
As it turned out, Old Scabbs was a fine guide. He truly did know the place like his own warts, and demonstrated this fact by calling “hello” to all the wrecked boats they passed. Eager to please his new benefactors, the man was happy to answer any question they had about the Just Deserts.
“How do we find food here?” Peter asked after his stomach loosed a particularly loud rumble.
“Hungry, says you?” Old Scabbs gave a low cackle. “The eatings here might not be what LittleBoy’s accustomed to.” He knelt down and stuck his arm into the sand. After a brief struggle, he pulled out a long, fat centipede. He broke the squirming critter into two pieces and popped them both into his mouth. “Mmm, tasty!” he said, merrily chomping away. “If he’s lucky, LittleBoy’ll find a good, plump fire ant! Why, last year Old Scabbs caught one big as his fist, he did!”
“Ugh,” Sir Tode said queasily. “I don’t even want to imagine what you must drink.”
“D-d-drink, says you?” The old man’s jaw went slack, letting sandy bits of centipede fall. “Oh, if only he could . . .” He retreated into his own thoughts, smacking his mouth and muttering nonsense. “Cup o’ tea from the kettle for Poor Old Scabbs?” he said to no one in particular. “Nay, just swallow your spits.”
The question of what Old Scabbs drank (if anything) was but one of many questions their guide could not answer. They were not, for example, able to determine how all of these boats got here from the shore—or whether the Just Deserts even had a shore, for that matter. Neither were they able to learn anything more about what Old Scabbs and the others had done to get banished. “You mentioned there were other prisoners,” Peter finally said. “But we’ve been walking for hours and haven’t met a single soul.” The old man whirled around, offended. “Not a soul, says you? And what of Poor Old Scabbs? Ain’t he a soul?”
“He means other people besides us three, you old lump.” Sir Tode was growing more than a little weary of their guide. It was a fact that most people who encountered Sir Tode were so startled to hear him speak that they treated him with respect, if not fear. Old Scabbs, however, proved stubbornly uninterested in anything he had to contribute—which went a long way toward explaining the knight’s rather truculent mood.
“Why does LittleBoy let his pet talk so terrible cruel?” he said to Peter. “Maybe he should eat KittyPet for punishment! Maybe share a nibble with Poor Old Scabbs, too, mmm?”
“How can I be his pet when I speak?!”
“Of course KittyPet speaks. Old Scabbs never seen a pet that didn’t.”
Peter pulled the fishhook from his bag, drawing the man’s full attention. “Sir Tode is not my pet. He is a brave knight, and my friend. You will treat him as you treat me: with respect. Do you understand?”
Old Scabbs responded with a frantic “Yes! Yes!” directed less at Peter than at the point of his gleaming blade.
From then on, the travelers continued in relative silence, broken only when Old Scabbs had to secure safe passage through enemy camps. Each time he would scramble ahead and shout into the darkness:
Blinded and binded in whitest yarn,
Here comes Old Scabbs, who means no harm!
A moment later, a voice would call back, “Pass, thief!” Old Scabbs would then march on, leading Peter and Sir Tode through a cluster of wrecked ships. The first time they went through a hollow like this, Peter noticed the faint sound of heartbeats all around them. When he asked about it, Old Scabbs only shook his head. “Some thieves is not to be trusted! Terrible wicked, says I.”
As the night wore on, the moon began to dip closer and closer to the horizon, and Peter could smell the dew percolating up from the ground. In the last hours, he had had time to mull over all the things they had learned about the Just Deserts. He knew there were other prisoners and that the warden had destroyed all their ships. Still, there was one thing Officer Trolley had said right before trying to brand them that didn’t quite fit. “How often do new prisoners arrive?” Peter asked, catching up to his guide.
“Newcomers? Why, Old Scabbs ain’t never seen newcomers to the Just Deserts, excepting LittleBoy and KittyPet.” He paused a moment, considering this fact. “Hmm . . . mighty peculiar, that is.”
Peter jumped in, not wanting the old man to think too hard about their mysterious arrival. “So if there are never any newcomers, then that means you were all sentenced here at the same time?”
“Sentenced, says you? We thieves was tricked here, says I!”
“Hold on,” Sir Tode said, joining the conversation. “Are you saying that every prisoner here is a thief?”
“Every last one.” Old Scabbs marched ahead to catch a beetle of some kind.
The knight shivered. “An entire prison full of thieves? No offense, Peter, but I can think of few things more dreadful.”
No sooner had he said this than a cry rang out from somewhere ahead. “Thieves take cover!” it said.
Old Scabbs stopped at once, listening. Another voice—this one closer—repeated the cry: “Thieves take cover!”
Peter could almost hear the blood drain from Old Scabbs’s face. “Not good! Not good, says I!” The old man fell to his knees and started frantically digging a hole, tossing handfuls of sand over his head. “Old Scabbs must hurry! They are a-coming!”
The cry sounded again and again, each time closer than the last. “Thieves take cover! . . . Thieves take cover!”
“What’s all this now?” Sir Tode said, growling. “Take cover from what?”
“Hurry, KittyPet!” The old man was now trembling all over. He scooped sand around his pasty body, burying himself. “Light-o-day’s nearly come! Old Scabbs must hurry and hide hisself—or else They might catch him!” All through the night, he had been dropping occasional hints regarding some mysterious “They,” but whenever asked about it directly, he would be overcome with fits of terror.
“They who?!” Peter tried for the hundredth time.
“Old Scabbs is warning LittleBoy and KittyPet to hide, and hide quickly!” He bellowed, “THIEVES TAKE COVER!” and plunged his face into the sand, leaving only the top of his head exposed.
“Er, Peter?” Sir Tode said, growing nervous. “Perhaps we should listen to him, just this once?”
Old Scabbs reached out from the sand and pulled them both to the ground. He lifted his face, which was pale with panic. “They’re here!” he whispered, cupping his filthy fingers over their mouths. The two lay motionless on the sand, waiting.
And then They came.
At first Peter heard a faint rustling, like a mast-jack flapping in the wind. Then the sound grew louder, filling out into a chorus of hundreds, then thousands—all pounding furiously against the air. Dread washed over the boy as he felt the tumult in the skies above. The noise thundered past them, eclipsing the moon and cloaking the desert in icy shadow.
Finally, after what seemed like ages, the storm passed, and Peter felt the safety of moonlight once more. He remained still, waiting until the sounds completely disappeared, leaving empty silence. “What was that?” he asked, afraid to hear the answer.
Old Scabbs leaned close, wild terror in his voice. “That, LittleBoy . . . were the ravens!”
CHAPTER TEN
A BREEZE over the HILL
Peter couldn’t sleep. There were several good reasons for this. First, it was almost noon, and the sun was already blisteringly hot. Second, he was buried up to his neck in itchy, bug-ridden sand. And finally, just a few hours earlier, a monstrous flock
of ravens had flown right over his head. No matter how Peter reassured himself that his current hiding place was as safe as any, his survival instinct was telling him to keep moving. He listened to the gentle snoring of Sir Tode and Old Scabbs, buried on either side of him.
“Sir Tode,” he whispered.
The knight’s mustache twitched. “Land ho,” he murmured dreamily, then jolted upright, remembering the previous night’s events. “Wait, what?! Are They back?”
“No, but I want to explore a bit while Old Scabbs is sleeping.” Peter quietly pulled himself out of the sand. “Come on,” he said, helping his friend free.
Sir Tode yawned and shook a tick from his ear. “Are you certain we should go traipsing about like this? The old coot warned us it wasn’t safe to travel in daylight. Just this once I’m inclined to believe him.”
“We’ll be fine.” Peter emptied the sand from his sack and slung it over one shoulder. “We walked all yesterday without running into trouble.”
The knight groaned. “No, no trouble at all . . . unless you count heatstroke, blisters, and axe-wielding wardens.”
After some debate, Peter convinced Sir Tode that the best course of action would be to explore farther east before returning to Old Scabbs in the late afternoon. “That would still leave us a few hours to rest before heading back out again,” he persuaded his friend. Sir Tode agreed to the plan, but only on the condition that he be allowed to ride in Peter’s bag.
The two set off in the direction they had been following the previous night, searching for signs of life. In the daylight, they did not have to search very long. “I say, Peter, there are men sleeping all over this place,” Sir Tode said from his new perch. It was true; hidden in the shadows of every wrecked boat was the snoring head of a prisoner, which stuck out from the sand like some sort of unsightly weed. “It’s a wonder I didn’t spot them before.”
“It seems like all of the prisoners treat their wrecked boats like houses,” Peter said. “I bet when Old Scabbs was calling out boat names, he was actually saying hello to other thieves.” The boy’s deduction was spot-on. On the whole, the prisoners of the Just Deserts were extremely territorial. When they first arrived, each man claimed the wreckage of the vessel that brought him. Every day when they slept, the prisoners would bury themselves in the shade of the shattered hull. In fact, the reason that Old Scabbs discovered Peter and Sir Tode in the first place was because they had inadvertently squatted beside his home, Scabbs’ Joy.
“What do you think their crime was?” Sir Tode asked.
“I’m not sure. But it must have been something awful to deserve this fate.” The most common punishment in Peter’s hometown had been hanging. The thought of public execution had always terrified him, but perhaps life in this place was worse than death? “They all sound so miserable. Not to mention the way they smell.”
“They don’t look much better, I assure you,” Sir Tode observed.
The idea that he might possibly end up like one of these prisoners made Peter ill. “That’s all the more reason for us to find a way out of here and help whoever wrote that message.”
The two travelers kept on exploring until just before noon, when they decided to stop and find something to eat. Though Peter had no interest in swallowing bugs, he knew how important it was to keep strong. Sir Tode, on the other hand, had gotten over his initial queasiness and was now having a delightful time discovering all sorts of savory new insects. “Not half-bad!” he said, chomping merrily on a spotted sand-weevil. “So long as you keep away from those stingers.”
Peter was not listening. A breeze had just rolled over the crest of the next sand dune, and with it came a sweet, new fragrance. He raised his nose, taking in the cooler air. “There’s water over that way. I’m sure of it,” he said.
Sir Tode, who was still growing accustomed to his companion’s extraordinary senses, balked. “You can smell water?” he said.
Peter ignored the comment. “It’s maybe half a league away,” he said. “If we can find a water source, we might be able to fish for some real food.” He started off in a new direction. Sir Tode spit out his mouthful of bugs and followed after him.
Within a few minutes, they had reached the top of a large hill. “Good heavens,” Sir Tode said. “Remind me never to doubt your nose.”
The boy grinned. “I thought you might say that.” He could now hear a faint trickling sound ahead. “It must be a spring of some kind. Do you think there might be any fish in it?”
Sir Tode gave a wry chuckle. “Boiled, maybe. It looks like a giant rock, and it’s shaped exactly like . . . a teakettle.” The knight stared at the bizarre landmark, trying to decide whether or not it might be a mirage. “It’s got a handle and spout and everything.”
Looming in the distance was indeed a large boulder shaped like a kettle. It was roughly the size of a house and had been hollowed out and filled with water. “I can feel a current moving underground,” Peter said when they came closer. “It must flow up through the bottom, like a well.” The pair managed to scale the handle without too much trouble. There were no signs of fish in the water, but it was at least potable. “Who do you think put it here?” Peter mused, dipping his blistered feet into the pool.
“Someone strong . . . or at least very determined.” Sir Tode examined the chisel marks on its surface. From this height, he could see nearly all of the Just Deserts, and he took the opportunity to scout their surroundings. “I think I see the border in the distance. The horizon ends with a long stripe of black that stretches out in both directions—some kind of wall or fence, maybe? And right in the middle, there’s a spire poking into the sky.”
“That must be the prison gates. Do you think we can make it by nightfall?”
“Perhaps.” Sir Tode squinted. “It’s hard to tell from here.”
“Well, at least we know we’re headed in the right direction. And in the meantime, we can rest a moment before walking again.” While the professor’s wineskin did an adequate job of keeping them alive, it was far from ideal. Trekking through the desert had left both of them extremely dusty and not a little chapped. Moreover, the last bath taken by either of them had been in the Troublesome Lake some time ago. Though boys generally make a point of hating baths, Peter Nimble was willing to make an exception just this once.
The cool water instantly revived the two travelers. After some experimentation, they figured out a way to use the spout as a sort of shower tap: whenever one of them jumped into the well, it would raise the water level and spray out a refreshing stream.
The kettle also proved a perfect spot for Peter and Sir Tode to improve their swimming skills. Because of the rock’s curved walls, they were able to support themselves while they practiced breathing, kicking, and diving. By the end of an hour, they were both able to keep themselves somewhat afloat.
Once the travelers were thoroughly clean, they stretched out on the rim of the rock and dried themselves under the desert sun. “What do you think lies on the other side of that wall?” Sir Tode asked.
Peter shrugged. “The Vanished Kingdom, I hope. Whatever we find, I’m sure it will answer at least some of our . . .”
Sir Tode turned and regarded his silent friend. “Some of our what?” he said.
But the boy had become still. For in that moment, a great shadow slid over his body, blotting out the sun. Peter clasped Sir Tode’s mouth shut. He lay rigid, listening in terror as a noise overhead grew louder and louder.
It was the sound of wings.
And it was headed straight for them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE RAVENS of KETTLE ROCK
Peter lay completely still as the giant flock wheeled overhead. “How many are there?” he whispered to Sir Tode.
The knight stared at the storm of black wings thundering across the sky. “Thousands,” he said, swallowing hard. “P-p-perhaps they’ll pass without seeing us?”
“Keep calm, whatever you do.” The boy knew his friend was prone t
o panic. In truth, he was just as frightened as Sir Tode. Peter could almost feel their eyes scanning the sand as the birds flew a circle around the rock. He tensed at the sound of razor-sharp talons braking against the wind. “They’re coming to land,” he said. “Our only chance is to hide in the water before they reach the rock.”
“In the water? Forgive me, but I seem to have misplaced my gills!”
The boy put a reassuring hand on his friend’s foreleg. “When I say so, we’ll both dive below the surface and swim up inside the spout. If we can make it to the top, we’ll be able to breathe without being seen.” It was a feeble plan, but he could think of nothing better.
Peter listened carefully to the ravens’ movement. Sunlight slid back over his skin as birds swooped southward, dipping briefly behind a dune. “Now!” he said. The two rolled themselves into the water seconds before the mighty ravens touched down all around them.
For Peter, being submerged was like being in a nightmare. While his expert ears could still pick out echoes, it was near impossible to identify where they were coming from. He couldn’t smell without inhaling water, of course, and his hands and feet were too busy kicking to be of any real use. Peter could hear the tiny splashing of beaks snapping at the water’s surface. Could ravens swim? No, they were only drinking at the top of the well. The splashing sounds grew more and more faint as he and Sir Tode kicked deeper toward the bottom of the kettle. He knew the spout must connect down there somewhere. At last his hands found an opening in the rock. He pushed Sir Tode up into the spout’s entrance and wiggled in after him. Peter remembered the last time he and the knight had been underwater like this; they had been fighting against each other. Now the two of them were working together.
Peter was about halfway up the spout when his lungs began to give out. The narrow walls were closing around him; his veins felt like they were going to explode. Sir Tode’s hoof connected with his nose, and he tasted his own blood spreading in the water. The boy struggled on, cutting his feet and arms against the wall of rock. He could think of nothing but air, of nothing but the surface. His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure the birds could hear it. He didn’t care; he had to breathe again.