or harmonicas or pipes being played. No one was avasting, or something-ing the mainsail, or trying to figure out how to spell fo’c’sle. They sat or stood uncomfortably, resting on their mops, unable to play mumbly-pegs, mindlessly hauling rope, end over end beyond its seeming use.
All eyes were directed to the front of the ship, where the reader’s should be, too.
The prow of the Jolly Roger, a ship well-known to fans of Never Land awake or asleep, was decorated with a giant skull, as on its flag. But its famous figurehead was eclipsed now by a newer, more intricate, and far more terrifying decoration: a giant cage of golden wire and evil pointy bits that was suspended precariously over the water.
Captive inside was a squirming splotch of blackness that didn’t quite resolve into focus. It deformed and swelled and shrank and stretched but somehow never managed to ooze out of the wickedly sharp pincers that held it in place. Four of them, sharper than Sleeping Beauty’s spindle, were set around the thing at points of the compass. Each dug deeply into the material of Peter Pan’s shadow. Four more were set in points indicating places only known to Captain Hook, Mr. Smee, and perhaps the shadow itself.
Its skin rippled around the barbs like a horse’s flesh when a fly lands on a sore.
The shadow hunkered down, trying to become as small as it would be underfoot at noon on the equator; to virtually disappear, and thereby free itself of the points. But somehow it remained stuck. Long, thin, sickly strands of shadow ran from the barbs back to its center, refusing to snap free. The shade would vibrate for a few moments—like a hideous spider prevaricating in the middle of its web—before reforming itself and trying something new.
But for long periods in between it would give up and resolve itself into a version of Peter Pan, albeit a horribly distorted one. In terrible irony it put its arms out as if it were Peter: flying free, banking and turning on the wind.
Pulleys and wires under the cage attached to the pincers would then twist and squeak and groan, almost in ridicule of the normal creak of a ship’s ropes and rigging. These wires ran through guides and eventually connected to the captain’s wheel. When the shadow banked, so did the ship.
That the shadow was in unspeakable amounts of pain wasn’t even a question. Sometimes its shrieks actually bordered on the audible. No pirate slept through the night comfortably even with bellies full of purloined grog and bits of cloth stuffed into ears and kerchiefs wrapped around weary heads. Even when the cries couldn’t be heard, its torment could be felt thrumming throughout the ship.
The crew, already an unhealthy lot, looked even sicker than usual.
“Smooth sailing today,” the Duke observed reluctantly, afraid—like all of them—to break the streak.
“Ain’t right,” Djareth mumbled.
“Go talk to ’im, go talk again,” Screaming Byron told Zane.
The tall, skinny pirate spat in response to this, but without conviction.
“Go on then,” Ziggy pushed. “You drew the short straw. You have to.”
“Likely as kill me as reason with me,” Zane sighed. “But better to be dead than caught in this misery forever.”
He sauntered over to the captain’s quarters and knocked. An irritated voice growled from within.
“Mr. Smee, could you get that?”
“SMEE! Where the deuce did you get to?”
“Dash it all, do I have to do everything meself.…”
“COME IN!” the captain finally roared.
Zane swallowed and took a last look back at the crew. They all gave him unconvincing grins and thumbs-up. He sighed and opened the door. He would rather have done many things, including face a fleet of sharks with just a bowie knife, rather than enter the dark, unwholesome hold of his captain.
Hook looked as resplendent as ever in the ridiculous red frock coat that Zane sorely coveted. But his face was an unhealthy pink, glowing and perspiring from something unnatural—certainly nothing wholesome and clean like working the masts, counting loot, or cutting a throat.
“Begging your pardon, Cap’n,” Zane began, trying to remain polite—something he wasn’t much used to.
“Ah! Alodon. You would appreciate this, out of the whole crew. I’ve come up with some tweaks to the Painopticon that not only enhance its effectiveness, but also add some very stylish flourishes.”
Zane licked his dry lips and leaned over the table where Hook gestured. Apparently the captain had been scribbling away with a beautiful swan’s feather pen on a sheet of parchment, his fury and passion betrayed by the