Straight On Till Morning (Disney Twisted Tales) - Liz Braswell Page 0,55

the boat was fastened tightly and in no danger of drifting off.

Captain Hook seemed almost jolly as he put on his hat and adjusted his mustache. “You’re with me, Smee.”

“I was really hoping you wouldn’t say that,” the other pirate murmured sadly, pulling his own cap down over his ears.

The captain grabbed a jaunty walking stick and sauntered down the gangplank. “I don’t think I need to tell you fellows no shore leave here, today,” he called over his shoulder.

The island wasn’t much more than a single rocky promontory rising up out of the sea like the longest claw of a dying antediluvian beast. On the tip of that claw was Madam Moreia’s hut.

“What kind of witch lives on an island?” Smee muttered as they left the dock and clambered up the narrow path that spiraled around the island (allowing the witch several perfect views of approaching visitors). “Shouldn’t she be in a nice snug little house in the woods somewhere, luring children in with candy and then eating them?”

“This is the oldest kind of witch, Mr. Smee. If you had any education at all, you would know all about the Greeks and their very, very scary witches.”

“Guess I’m glad I never got a proper education, then,” the other pirate said, looking around woefully.

At the top of the promontory they walked across a precarious bridge to the hut: a gnarled mess of driftwood, strange black vines, and what looked like seaweed or possibly human flesh stretched taut for a roof.

Hook took off his hat and rapped.

“Madam Moreia? It’s Hook! Come to visit!”

The door opened of its own accord after a suitably spooky pause.

The inside of the hut was of course much larger than the outside, but so dark and cramped and filled with indistinguishable things that the effect was much less grand than it could have been. A primitive fire burned coals on the floor without a ring or anything around to contain it.

Tending the cauldron suspended above the flames was a bent-over old woman. Her skin was thick with grease and soot. Great ropy locks of hair were mounded on her head until they practically doubled her height. When she turned to fix a pair of milky eyes on her guests, Smee’s heart almost stopped.

“Ah, Hook! Such a long time!” she cried, surprisingly merry. “How’s my favorite handsome pirate captain?”

“Very well, Moreia, very well,” Hook said politely, leaning over and submitting himself to a kiss on the cheek that left a gray lip print.

“You want something, don’t you,” she said with a sigh. “You never just come to visit. Ah, well, what’s to be expected among the evil? Polite behavior? Niceties?” She cackled and slurped from the ladle she held. “I’m just cooking up a nice bowl of baby bits. Care for a bowl?”

“None for me, thank you,” Hook said, trying to sound regretful. “Maybe Mr. Smee would.”

“Who? Oh.” The witch looked up and made a big deal of winking at the first mate, although not quite in the right direction. Perhaps because of her cataracts. “What do you want, then? May as well get right down to business, eh?”

“Well, I’m having some shadow issues,” Hook admitted with a sigh, sitting down in a comfy red-velvet chair whose hard parts were carved from human femurs and tibias.

“Shadows, mm? Tricky business. For mortals.”

“Yes, well, it’s Peter Pan’s shadow. So trickier than most, I would say.”

“Peter Pan? You’re still chasing after that wretch? Well, well. Some things never change in Never Land.”

“It is what it is.” Hook crossed one leg over the other and sniffed with great dignity. “But I had this rather brilliant idea that I could use his shadow—currently in my possession—to lead me to him. Like a compass.”

Mr. Smee nodded eagerly—then frowned, perhaps remembering where the idea had come from originally. Hook was careful not to look at him.

The witch sucked her tooth, stirring the soup thoughtfully. “Not a compass…There’s problems with enchanting the shadow down so small. For long periods of time. Especially if you don’t plan on staying near the equator. No, a compass won’t work. You need something more human-sized. Like…a Painopticon.”

“What’s that?” Hook asked eagerly.

“I think it’s the thing you’re looking for. The engineering of it escapes me. Was mentioned in one of me books over there.”

The witch gestured to a shelf, which had on it things that made even Hook squirm: moldering jars of foul-smelling ointments, shiny black plants that looked more liquid than fiber, cloches protecting half-fleshed skeletons that could have been