 24 Barely with the last spadefuls of sand packed down into Zachary Hayes' grave, when Amos, who had wandered to the beach facing the sea and long out a shoreline, sang out, Ship Bahoy! Remembering their orders, the men rushed over from the cove, but remained hidden behind trees or shrubs. Chris and Amos climbed a tree, from whose branches they had a fine, unobstructed view up and down the coast. To the left, far distant, a point of land jutted out into the sea, tropical trees carrying their green out in a long curve. To the right, just appearing from the direction in which they themselves had come a few hours previously, came a majestic ship, black from stem to stern. Black was its hull, but black, too, were its sails. It looked exceedingly ominous on the afternoon blue of the sea, and as it came almost level with the channel to the cove, its sails were lowered, and the watchers on shore could hear the splash of the anchor as it was heaved overboard. When Ed Silly, oldest of the Mirabella's sailors, came panting up from the cove and Zachary's grave, to look out from the leaves at the base of the boy's tree. "'O Lordy, Lordy!' exclaimed when he caught sight of the black ship, the last of her somber sails being taken in. "'What did I tell you, lads?' he cried, addressing any one and every one near enough to hear him. "'That be the black vulture, the pirate ship! No vessel is safe near the black vulture. Not at God's mercy that all of us, and the Mirabelle, are out of sight, for the men aboard the vulture know no pity, lads.' Grows and murmurs rumbled along the shore from clump to clump of leaves where the men stood hidden. Chris pulled his by-glass from his pocket, and looked eagerly at the pirate ship only a little way out from shore. It looked familiar, although Chris had had time to see so few ships he could not be certain. He shifted the glass, looking at the details here and there, and at the name in gold-carved letters against the black-painted side—vulture. The letter stood out neat and clear, and then Chris's heart stopped and started again. "'Ned!' he called down softly, for sound carries far and clearly over-water as every sailor knows. "'Ned, don't most ships just paint the name on the side?' "'I, lad, that they do,' he replied in a puzzletone, looking up through the leaves at the two boys. "'Then isn't it unusual to have letters carved of wood and gilded on the side of a ship?' Chris persisted. "'Aye, that it be.' Ned's puzzletone was sharper now, and he looked up at Chris and then out to the pirate vessel. "'What do you aimin' at now, Milade?' Ned asked. "'What's in your mind?' "'Just tell me what ships you know, whose name is not painted on, but set in carved letters, Ned,' Chris said, and he lowered his glass and looked down. The conversation in the silence had had some quality of excitement in it that had been caught by the others, for when Chris glanced down he saw half the ship's company knotted around the base of the tree, and a half-circle of faces turned up to his along with Ned's. Ned's face puckered with effort for a few moments, as he muttered. "'Let me see now. There's the Southerner.' "'No, that's painted on.' "'Or the Priscilla drew. No, that's painted too.' He turned, searching the faces of his friends. "'Come, boys, watch ship has carved letters for her name, not painted ones. Where's a better memory nor mine?' The captain and Mr. Finney came to join the crowd, standing back in the shadow of the palm grove. Both men were listening attentively. It was Bowie, who finally spoke up slowly, as if unwillingly. "'There's only one ship that ever I did see with carbon letters on a side, and that was Chew's ship, the Venture.' He was surrounded at once by a low murmur of ascent from all sides. "'I, I, that be so. "'Tis so!' Chris, from his higher perch, pointed an accusing finger out to see. "'Look, then, for there's your same ship. The Venture and the Vulture are one and the same. "'Here, take my glass,' he cried, handing it down. "'See the two-second letters. They are just a bit of slant. Weeks ago at home I thought it seemed strange that the E and the N looked loose. But loose they are. Once at sea they're changed. Boltered in, maybe. I don't know how. And there's your merchant ship at home and pirate ship at sea.' The men turned, wonderingly, but angrily too. For the remembrance of what Zachary Haye had tried to do, and so nearly succeeded in, rankled, and they now began to understand many things. Voices began to rise dangerously high in the growing ill feeling. Ah, the dirty dog! And his friend with the heirs! Have we then been harboring the like of him at home? Ah, to let him go free to scuttle the next wine-ship, take all her cargo and leave her valiant men to drown. The captain came forward, his hands up-braised. How now, men, be still! We are here to see what may take place, but if your voices should carry, as well they may, over the water, we should have little chance of it. Do you be still and watchful? A low cry came from Amos, who had not taken his eyes from the sea. Look! Around the point! Here comes another ship. Looks like that was what the old blackbird was awaiting for. More enough, as the fine white sails of a good-sized vessel made its way around the point of land, distant shouts and confusion could be heard on the vulture. Looking through his glass, which he lent to Amos every few moments, Chris could make out scurrying figures on the deck of the pirate ship, men springing up the rigging and others walking up the anchor as quickly as they could. On the bridge Chris could see the tall gaunt height of Claggett Chew. The humpback figure of Simon Gossler stood rubbing his hands at one side of his master. While on the other observing the work of the sailors was a supercilious air, leaned a familiar and ridiculous figure. Dressed as if for a caught ball at Versailles, and holding his lawn yet a few inches from his nose, Osterbridge Horsie remained elegantly aloof from anything so degrading as hard work. He looked on with a superior smile, as the black sails were unfurled. The anchor was heaved, dripping from its bed, and the hard-pressed dirty crew made all speed to go in advance of the oncoming ship. Still others among the pirates could be plainly seen manning the guns that had already been brought out from their hiding-places, while still more stood by to furnish their comrades with cannonballs and powder. Amos became so excited he leaned too far forward, and nothing learned from his nightly difficulties with his hammock fell out of the tree onto the heads and shoulders of the men below, causing astonishment and swallowed laughter before he was hoisted back up again. "'Bless my cap and buttons!' Ned Silly cried. "'There's to be a fight for Satan. I can see the flash of light on the swords and axes.' Quicker than it would take to tell, the vulture, black sails spread, moved forward to head off the merchantmen evidently homeward bound from China. The pirate ship sailed down the coast, turned and forced the oncoming vessel to stop. Then as well as the watchers could guess, a parlay ensued. But if the pirates thought the prey would be an easy one, they were mistaken, for the merchantmen came forward suddenly, all sails set in an effort to ram the vulture. But the rich cargo vessel was hopelessly at a disadvantage. The pirate guns opened fire. Robes were thrown over to the peaceful ship, and with yells of triumph that carried even above the tumult of the fighting, the pirate crew leapt on board. Tiny figures could be seen falling into the water from the merchantman, and in a bitter hour or so the sound of fighting died out altogether. The men watching from the shore had been kept there only by the obedience the captain was able to extract from them, for rage was in the heart of every man at the sight they were forced to see, but were powerless to prevent. Even among such hard-bittened old salts, as they all were, more than one could be seen mumbling a prayer for the unfortunate men who had put up such a gallant fight. "'Come, lads,' Captain Blizzard said to them at last, "'we have seen what we had to see, and many is the witness now against Cleger Chew and all his company. Ay, ay, that we are. We'll bear witness to such villainy. They should all hang for it,' the voices cried. Then let us go back to our own ship, for the dreaded vulture is not yet gone, and unarmed as we two are, what chance have we against cannonballs and armed men?' The men turned about and trooped back to the dinghies, while Captain Blizzard stayed behind a moment to speak to Chris. "'My boy,' he said, his hand on Chris's shoulder, as in front of them in the late afternoon light the men of the Mirabelle made their way back to the ship. "'Tis my advice you had best return with us now, or you might be missed by one or another of the men, and they have much time to think. You shall do what has been set for you to do. We shall stay here another day to take on water and fresh fruits.' He looked smilingly down at Chris, but his eyes were concerned. "'Will not be a moment too soon for me until I see you safe and sound and bored again, my lad?' he said. "'For I like you well, and would have no smallest harm come to you.' Together they went down to the beach and, waiting dingy, Chris dared not look at the sky above them, for he knew night was darkening it, and with night he must leave. End of CHAPTER XXV. Soon as the night was dark enough Chris loudly complained of not feeling well, of being hot and dizzy, and in no time Captain Blizzard had, as loudly, told him he was to go to bed on a cot in the Captain's cabin. Captain Blizzard closed the door behind him, and in Amos's and Ned Silly's hearing told Mr. Finney that he was much afraid that Chris had a touch of sun and was coming down with a tropical fever. Chris remained alone in the cabin from that time. Soon in the cool of the night the sailors of the Mirabelle set out in dingies to a cascade of fresh water that emptied itself into a cove at its father's end, taking with them casts and barrels to replenish the ship's water supply. Their deep voices swept back over the water, to where Chris stood by the open port of the Captain's cabin. He was forcing himself toward the moment when he must board the vulture. His resolve was held back by his mounting anxiety as to how best to carry out what would be necessary, and a strong natural reluctance to leave the Mirabelle. Leave it, he must. He stood pondering on what shape to assume, and when he heard the cry of a belated nightbird and saw it coast by on silent wings to vanish in the night, he decided to take that shape. He took all his courage and determination, but this was the first step toward what he had trained for so long to do, and he knew he must do it, and at once. The boy looked last time around the cabin, then spoke the magic formula in his mind, and with a sudden enjoyment in the sense of flight he soared away from the ship out over the cove. The bird swept twice around the Mirabelle, rising higher as it went. Below, the few lights of the ship had been carefully hooded away from the sea, and the bird, spiraling lightly on air currents, drifted out from land. The black bulk of the vulture was easy to find in the clearness of the night. She was riding at anchor close in shore farther down the coast, and final boat-fulls of men were returning from the merchant-men carrying the last of the spoils. Sweeping by toward the beach, Chris saw that most of the band at crew were already drunk, shouting and crowzing round fires where they roasted wild creatures they had earlier killed. He noticed that a few Tahitians stood apart at the joining of the palm forests and the sand, watching the coarse faces of the drunken men. The Tahitians, fitting so well into the beauty of their island, gold of skin and crowned with flowers, carrying themselves with dignity, were as far removed as could be imagined from the idea of pagan men. They contrasted sharply at that moment with those from civilisation, who in filthy rags of clothes and wild disorders of gestures and voices, staggered about aimlessly gorging food and drinking. The watching pagans glanced from the brawling pirates back a short distance down the beach, where already a few bodies had been washed ashore from the fight. Their distaste and bewilderment were plain. Chris sawed high above the din and the smoke of the fires, and then seeing Osterbridge Horsie, being rowed back to the vulture, followed after. Osterbridge Horsie had two baskets at his feet. One was filled with carefully chosen fruits, and the other with exotic flowers of the island. Hastily changing himself into a green parakeet, Chris alighted on the rail of the vulture, just as Osterbridge Horsie reached the top of the ladder. Determined to make a good impression, and perhaps catch Osterbridge's fancy, Chris in his bright parakeet plumage bobbed his head and sidled up and down the ship's rail, lying Osterbridge Horsie with his head on one side, as he had seen parakeets do. The manoeuvres succeeded, for Osterbridge, with a little cry of pleasure, declared himself enchanted. I must have that little bird, he exclaimed, and carefully taking off his fashionable hat, even more out of place in the tropics than it had been on the Georgetown docks, he snapped it quickly over the parakeet, which allowed itself to be captured. This Osterbridge Horsie's own prize made him crow with delight. Clamouring as gracefully as possible over the battle-scarred side of the vulture, he took the parakeet gently out from under his tricorn. "'A parakeet? As I live!' he shrilled, sounding very like a parakeet himself. "'My soul, what a prize!' he rattled on, entirely to himself as it turned out, for the sailors were not at all interested in a pet. Just from the battle, or drunk from captured wine, and all despising the fastidious ways of Osterbridge Horsie, they paid not the slightest attention. They obeyed occasional orders from him, for they knew they would be whipped by Clegete Chew if they did not, and so hauled up the baskets of fruits and flowers, dumped them unceremoniously in the captain's cabin, and left as quickly as they could to rejoin their shipmates on shore. Holding the parakeet firmly, Osterbridge Horsie tied a long silk cord to its right leg, fastening the other end to the arm of his chair, so that he could closely observe his new pet. Chris did not disappoint him. As the parakeet he played the clown for all he was worth. He strutted up and down and bobbed his head whenever Osterbridge Horsie spoke, so that it appeared that the brightly feathered bird was in constant agreement with his captor, or he would cock his head to one side as if weighing one of Osterbridge's remarks in a truly comical manner. Looking about meanwhile with his black beady eyes, Chris saw that Clegete Chew was lying in a bunk against one wall, nursing his left leg which had been given a sword thrust in the fight. He was obviously in pain and perhaps feverish, and Osterbridge Horsie's childish talk irritated and bored him, so that he turned his face to the wall. Light from the swinging lamp that Chris remembered from many weeks before threw black hollows into Clegete Chew's eye sockets and deeply lined face. Now and again he could be heard grinding his teeth at the pain of his wound, but Osterbridge Horsie, throwing his fine coat and plume hat to one side, lightheartedly amused himself by trying to tempt his new pet with some fruit. Clegete, he cried, as if Clegete Chew could possibly be interested in a parakeet at that point, do look at what I captured. This is my very own spoils of war, he crowed. Clegete Chew made an impolite noise and said nothing. Well Osterbridge Horsie gave a shrug as answer to the noise. You know how I detest fighting. It is vulgar, messy and noisy. I can imagine no possible good word to say for it, and I see no reason why you could not have made them give up their cargo without a skirmish. Urgh! he said at the remembrance. Now a good gentlemanly fight with a rapier is quite another thing, he went on. He smoked and made a face at the parakeet, who did its best to smoke back. That is a gressful and fine art, refined and not at all degrading to one's character. No sound from Clegete Chew. Osterbridge Horsie rattled on, and Chris, pecking at the fruit prophet him, thought that sometimes Osterbridge Horsie might quite possibly talk just as gaily to himself as he did to the unresponsive Clegete Chew. Clegete, your men! His voice rose. Really, they're making an exhibition of themselves on the beach. Just as well there is no one to see them but some aborigines. Quite revolting! How can you bear to associate with such types, when you are so much above them yourself? But there I must not pick you, must I, poor Clegete. I expect your wound smarts a trifle. Clegete Chew turned his face toward Osterbridge Horsie, his eyes blazing with rage and his mouth working with a fretful annoyance of an ill man, but he only muttered and turned away again. Do you know, his more delicate friend pursued, stretching out a long finger for the parakeet to perch on, which to his evident pleasure it instantly did, do you know, Clegete, this dear little creature seems fearless and almost human, quite touching. He paused, admiring the vivid colours of the feathers, which perhaps awoke a kindred feeling in Osterbridge Horsie, loving a fine display as he did. I shall give you a name, my little feathered captive," he said, and pondered. I wonder what would be suitable, something French, undoubtedly. He waved a hand, and the lace at his wrist fell forward in a not overly clean frill. Louis, after the dear king! No, that would be too great an honour for so small a bird, gaudy there you are. I think—I'm unsure, after the king's brother. That's it, little Monsure. He broke off dreamily, to think that I once knew such a royal, such a distinguished man," he sighed reminiscently. For the first time words came from Claggettchew. He bid them off, as if the saying of them cost him very great effort. More extinguished than distinguished, I would say. Osterbridge Horsie permitted a sad, condescending smile to cross his face, and he shook his finger at Claggettchew. Ah! Claggettchew never knew him, you see. I am sure you would have liked him. Such charm! So distinguished. Oh, dear me, yes, a most unusual royal personage," Osterbridge Horsie said, smiling happily at his barricade. Most of them are so much alike. He singled out several fresh fruits, peeling some for Claggettchew. Silence fell over the cabin, except for Osterbridge Horsie's delicately smacking lips as he finished the fruit, and licked his fingers one by one, the increasingly heavy breathing of Claggettchew, who fell asleep, and the distant sound of shouts and clamour from the shore. Osterbridge Horsie made a pouting face at the sleeping figure of Chew, evidently Osterbridge was bored. He went to the door and clapped his hands, but no one responded, except for the two men and the parakeet, the vulture was deserted. Osterbridge Horsie came back into the cabin, holding a bottle of wine which he uncorked and poured into a glass. Chris, foreseeing what would follow, hopped up to the back of his new master's chair where he hoped he would be forgotten, and tucked his head under his wing in case Osterbridge should look at him. Waiting for the right moment was the hardest thing Chris had to do, but he knew, as Osterbridge Horsie drank glass after glass and his book fell from his fingers, that the right moment would not be long in coming. CHAPTER XXVI. The tropic coolness of the night intensified as the hours advanced, and an added freshness swept out from the shore carrying its scent of flowers and earth. The feasting pirates had evidently fallen asleep over their food and empty wine mugs, for they did not return. With a growing sense of uneasiness, Chris cautiously brought his head out from under his jade green wing. He had had, for the past hour, the eerie feeling of being stared at, and he pecked at his scarlet and yellow breast feathers while sending a glance about the cabin. He knew without having to look where the source of his uneasiness lay. Claggett Chew had turned on his right side and fixed him with a pale, piercing and unblinking eye. So fixed it was that for a heart-thudding moment Chris imagined his enemy to be dead. But after a longer pause than usual the pale heavy lids finally blinked, though the unwavering eyes did not move from where Chris was perched as nonchalantly as he knew how to on the back of Osbridge Horsey's chair. The intelligence behind the stair was infinitely keen and resourceful. Chris, preening himself in a difficult effort to appear what he was not, knew that if Claggett Chew had not already guessed his disguise he was certainly more than suspicious. Hastily and with increasing starts of fear that sent the blood spurting through his veins, Chris cast about in his mind as to how he could distract Claggett Chew. As a parakeet he was chained by the tough silk cord that bound his bird's foot. He glanced down. Osbridge Horsey's now sleeping head lulled like a child's to one side. Chris eyed the length of the coral silk cord, and then hopped lightly from the back of the chair to Osbridge Horsey's shoulder. A blink of his parakeet's eyes from under their gray lids showed him that Claggett Chew had him fixed in a penetrating and unwavering stare. In his role as parakeet he moved sideways up Osbridge Horsey's shoulder, making for the shelter that the lolling head would afford to hide him from his enemy's eyes. As he moved step by step the parakeet made small low raucous noises, not loud enough to awaken Osbridge Horsey, but enough he hoped to make him seem a natural creature to the man who watched him so intently. As he neared Osbridge Horsey's neck, seeing the ridge of the collar on which he intended to perch, Chris took heart and with a last quick effort climbed the collar to hide behind Osbridge Horsey's head under the thick cluster of curls tied with what was now a ratty black bow. He was, in this precarious shelter, about to change himself into a fly when a scraping noise froze him with fear. Looking around Osbridge's neck he saw that Captain Chew was making desperate efforts to get out of his birth and had not taken his eyes from the place where he had last seen the parakeet. Chris knew in that moment with what an astute and formidable enemy he was faced. Paralysed he remained in his green and red parakeet feathers, watching the motions of the injured pirate. Clagget Chew might be suspicious, but he was also a fevered and badly wounded man. From his insecure hiding place, terrified at every sleeping movement from Osbridge Horsey and even more fearful of what Clagget Chew intended, Chris stared out as purposefully as Clagget Chew had only a few minutes before. The ashen-faced man, across the room in the glare of the hanging lamp, heaved and pushed at the sides of the bunk, his eyes brilliant with high fever, the sweat of illness and strain glistening over his bare head and colourless face. He ground his teeth at the sudden, almost intolerable flashes of pain that gripped him when he moved his leg. Still he persevered, grasps at a corner of the bunk and pushed himself upright. If it was possible for his white face to become paler, some last vestige of colour seemed to leave it. Clagget Chew threw up an arm to catch on something to steady himself, swayed and closed his sunken eyes. His arm caught the lamp, which, rocking through jet shadows as jagged as its light was harsh. Clagget Chew's prominent broken nose and the deeply grooved lines running down from it to the thin lips under his moustache, changed the cruelty of his face into a brutal mask. To Chris he scarcely looked human. He was a picture of all that was heartless and evil, but holding to the edge of his bunk, weakened and ill though he was, the power of his will still ruled his body. He doesn't know when he's licked, Chris thought, and not knowing he isn't. Then trying to hoist himself upright, Clagget Chew began beckoning and appealing to Osterbridge horsey, and Chris shook at the momentary possibility that some noise or word would awaken his sleeping hiding-place. Osterbridge. Osterbridge, Clagget Chew cried hoarsely. Wake up. Hear me. Fire, take your eyes. He muttered in his rage. Can you not rouse? Osterbridge. Osterbridge. But after a slight shift in position, Osterbridge horsey slept on. Clagget Chew, his face livid with pain, blood weaving down his chin where he had bitten his lip in an attempt to stifle his groans, managed to push himself up and totter to a chair against which he leaned weakly, calling out again. Plague your bones. Osterbridge, you sot. Help me, you sleazy fashionable. He started across the few feet of floor, separating him from his friend, and stooped though he was to adjust his height to the low ceiling to cabin. Nevertheless, his bulk was a terrifying sight as he stumbled and staggered forward. His hairless head nearly scraped the ceiling, and his shoulders were as broad across as those of two men. His hands, wide but strong and bony, twitched at the finger ends, as if they were unused to idleness without hurting or without the handle of his whip to grasp. Two steps forward, Chris saw, was all Clagget Chew needed to show him where the parakeet had gone, snatch him up and snuff out his life as a candle-flame is pinched between finger and thumb. Chris was tearing with his beak at the silk cord on his foot, raking at it between every look he sent towards Clagget Chew. Chris knew that if the pirate touched Osterbridge horsey, or worse, fell, the touch or the noise would succeed in awaking the heavily sleeping fob, and the parakeet exposed would be an easy prey for Clagget Chew. The captain of the vulture, sweat rolling down his tortured face, his eyes starting from their deep sunk sockets, with the strain of keeping himself on his feet, began roaring at Osterbridge once more. Osterbridge! Scummy! No! Good! Wake! That parrot has a scar on his jaw such as I once gave a boy. Osterbridge! He roared with a final, terrible effort. Then everything happened at once. Osterbridge horsey was aroused at last and sat up abruptly, heavy-headed and bleary, thickly asking, Clagget, what a noise! Cannot a man be allowed to doze in peace? Where are your manners? In the same instant Clagget Chew reached out to pluck the parakeet from behind the sheltering head and neck of the fashionable. Chris with a superhuman effort changed himself to a mouse, tearing his foot from the frayed cord that held it, and leaped into the air. Simultaneously Clagget Chew overcome by the approaching blackness he had been fighting, crashed to the floor unconscious. Chapter 27 of Mr. Wicker's window. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 27 A mouse streaked out the door of the captain's cabin and did not stop until it reached the farther end of the vulture, where it hid, quaking behind someone's old shoe. The little creature, quieting down at last, and feeling its heart regain a more familiar rhythm, sniffed distastefully at the shoe. It was plain to see, it thought, that the vulture was an untidy, ill cared-for ship. Old shoes were never left lying about on the mirror-bell. The thought of the mirror-bell brought Chris's mission on the pirate ship into sharper focus. He glanced up at the sky. There was little time left in which to work safely, for Clagget Chew's sharp eyes had noticed the infinitesimal scar on his cheek, and his astute brain had put two and two together. Chris wondered, with a new start of horror, if Clagget Chew could read his thoughts, and if this was why he had stared at him with such intensity. Well, he shrugged. He knew what had to be done, and if he worked quickly, and Clagget Chew's swoon lasted long enough, not even he could stop him. Looking about to make sure he was unobserved, he took his own shape again, with a sigh of relief. It was almost like holding one's breath for long periods of time, to be in the shape of a bird or a mouse. But to be himself he knew held even greater dangers. For the first time he opened the leather bag at his neck and felt inside. The first thing his fingers closed on he pulled out. He turned the object in his palm toward the starlight to see what it might be. It was a folding knife in a case of tortoise shell, inlaid with strange signs in silver and mother of pearl. Chris opened it, the blade was razor sharp, and put it experimentally, point down on the wood of the deck. As if by itself the blade revolved with immense speed, sinking in so fast that only just in time did Chris snatch it out and hold it more tightly. Trying it out he found that the blade would go through anything, sometimes so easily, as to scarcely seem to cut, leaving no trace of a mark, it was so keen. At other times when he pressed on it, the blade whirled round, boring a hole as deep as might be necessary. What a useful gadget, Chris thought. This is just what I need, and now is the time," he said to himself, and sprang up the nearest of the vulture's three masks. What he had to do would take long, and there was little time left that night in which to do it, for he intended slitting the lines of the rigging here and there, not so deeply that they would give away at once and be soon repaired, but so that with the first hard blow the lines would break. Growing daylight should have warned him long before he was done, for Chris wished also to slit the sails very slightly when they had been unfurled, and the vulture was under way. The sound of voices broke his absorption in his task. Looking down from the top of the main mask where he clung, Chris saw a boatload of returning sailors, and realized with a start that it was nearly sun-up. In a moment a rat ran down the mask to disappear into the foul-smelling hold of the pirate vessel. "'How long must he wait in the hold?' Chris wondered. Although he might be in the shape of a rat, it was only his outward form that had changed. He could not eat grain or refuse, that was not suitable for a human, and he did not relish having to hold his own in a fight with a true rat there in the darkness. He contemplated boring a hold in the hull of the vulture, but decided to wait until the ship was under sail. He bitterly regretted not having brought food with him, feeling hungry after his exertions about the ship. There was nothing else for it but to hide as safely as he could in his own shape. This he did, after a thorough search in his rat form to find what seemed a safe hidden place, high at the top of a pile of the loot stolen from the merchant man. There the exhausted boy, curled closely against any sudden movement of the ship, fell into a sound sleep. The dip and sway of a sailing ship, cutting the seas, and a ravenous appetite, combined to wait Chris. For the first few moments he was confused at where he was. Little or no light seeped into the hold, and he was further troubled by having no idea how long he might have slept. His first thought was to find food. Climbing down from his sleeping-place he felt his way back to the ladder leading up to the deck. The hatch at the top of the ladder was open, and through it came a long faded shaft of light and a freshening draught of air. By the quality of light Chris judged the time to be well along in the afternoon. He was debating with himself whether or not to change his shape and venture up to find something to eat. When on one of the lower treads of the plank ladder he caught sight of a plate of food. Chris stood staring at it for a moment. His mouth watered, for he had not eaten in many hours, and the sight of meat, bread, and fruit was almost more than he could resist. But resist it he did, for he argued in himself, If this has been put here it must be for me. If it is for me it may well be poisoned. I shall not be tempted much as Claggett Chew would like me to be. He therefore left the plate of food where it was, hoping the rats would find it before long, and he would have proof, through their actions, whether or not his theory was right. Then as a shadow fell over the hatch far above his head, Chris hastily became a fly, soaring up to hit Simon Gossler on the nose. Crawling in a leisurely fashion on the beggars hump, he lingered long enough to see what the cripple was about. Simon was looking down the steep ladder, shading his roomy eyes against the brilliance of the setting sun, with one filthy crooked hand. Chris crawling nearer could make out what the old man was muttering under his breath. The captain, he says, go down and see. Is the food it up, says he. But is a weary hard way for a poor old cripple to hop down that steep ladder? I'll not do it. He's a sick and fevered man. I shall say it was it up. The rats will have got it before I get to his cabin, in any case. And then who's to be the wiser? Besides, there's no boy on the ship. What a fancy, he muttered. He is an ill man, his claggettue, may his bones rot. I need do no more for him than what I have a mind to do. Nowing as many of his misdeeds as I do, ha! He rubbed his hands with anticipation. Any day Simon Gossler could be captain of the good vulture, and he say the word to the right quarter. His eyes no longer hidden behind black patches, narrowed with cunning. And in the meantime, who gets the best share of the spoils? The beggar broke off in a cackle of glee, rubbing his dirty, gnarled hands with satisfaction, and turned away to go back to the captain's cabin with his message. Chris flew away in the direction of the cook's galley. There as a fly he found it easy enough to eat his fill of meat and what few good things the vulture afforded. Refreshed, he flew hard against the wind in order not to be blown off the ship entirely, up to the safety of a part of the rigging from where he could ponder and what he had heard, and see whatever there was to be seen. Tahiti seemed to have been left far behind, for the vulture was well out to sea, and no smallest cloud on the horizon gave any hint of distant land. The sailors had set the sails, and a good breeze filled the black canvas of the pirate ship. The pirates themselves, still surly from having eaten and drunk too well after the fight of the day before, were coralsome and tired and lay about in sprawling groups on the deck far below. Looking aft, Chris saw Simon Gosler hobbling from the captain's cabin, an Osterbridge horsey's graceful, overdressed figure outlined in the doorway. On an impulse, Chris flew down to hear what they were saying. "'I thank you, Gosler, for your message,' Osterbridge was saying. "'For Captain Chew seems much relieved to have heard it, and I think we'll now rest quietly and sleep. Who is it, you say, who has some knowledge of medicine? The ship's carpenter?' Here Osterbridge horsey rolled his eyes upward and shrugged his expressive shoulders. "'Dear me, at least to be a sore-bones he has the sore,' he said disdainfully. "'And knows how to drive a nail into a coffin too, master,' whined the beggar. "'Enough,' cried Osterbridge in sudden anger, fetch him at once and tell the cook, as you pass the galley, to bring the captain some plain hot broth. He is much fevered.' The atmosphere seemed right to Chris, for all he had to do. Without Clugget Chew's commanding and forbidding presence the pirates would be in a turmoil. Chris returned to the higher rigging to wait until darkness should be more profound. It was not long before the tropic night fell, deeply blue in the first hours until the stars should give off their high, clear light. As the vulture rolled and pitched over the sea, far down beneath him, Chris clung to the rigging, and took the chance of changing himself into his own shape. Then with all the hasty could, he moved a hundred feet above the hard decks, up the masts and along the sails, setting the new knife gently here and there to part the fibres of the cloth. As he went the lines were touched occasionally in vital spots. It took long, for it had to be done with care. Chris scarcely made a move without looking down to see whether the sailors might not have glanced up at the dusky full-bellied sails, but they were weary after two such hard-filled days, and soon fell asleep on the planks of the open deck. Suddenly Simon Goslar hobbled in and out, watching a sailor here, stealing from another there, lifting his head slowly above the window of the captain's cabin to spy on what went on inside. Like a dark malevolent spirit, Simon Goslar, crippled in thought and body, moved restlessly about the pirate ship. Chris completed his task on the sails and rigging, and slipped down to hide behind the third mast, as he looked out to see where Simon Goslar might be. He could see him nowhere, and holding his breath stepped over two sleeping pirates sprawled on their backs on the deck to reach the hatch of the hold. He had one last task to perform before leaving the vulture. The hatch-top was open, laid back as before, and Chris, feeling some danger, changed to a mouse as he crouched on the top rung. Hesitating, sniffing the fettered air of the hold, he finally ran down the ladder-edge. There he sensed imminent death at its foot in time to leap as far as he could as he reached the last few rungs of the ladder. For Simon Goslar stood waiting at the bottom, armed with a club, which he brought down with a splintering crash on the wooden crossbars as the mouse ran past and leapt out of sight. Curses instantly filled the hot air like so many wasps. Simon Goslar thrashed around with the club, laying it about him on the floor, narrowly missing several times, and yelling at the top of his raucous lungs for companions to help him. In no time figures carrying flaming torches clattered down into the hold, and Chris, his own shape regained, knew he would have to be quick as he had never been quick before. With a flick the new knife was open in his hand, and the blade pressed with all his strength against the hull of the vulture. He was crowded into a corner as far as possible from the advancing row of torches and shouting men. Frantic rats terrified by the flames of torches and the reverberating noise, scampered over Chris's feet or ran up over his bending back and shoulders, but he did not move. The blade whirled in the stout wooden side of the vulture, but it seemed no time before the flicker and waving red of the nearest torches sent their flares over him from a distance. Chris could make out the silhouette of hunting figures as the first black trickle of sea water pierced through the side of the ship and stained the dry planks. Still the boy pushed the knife on a moment more, until the water was a steady spurt, wetting his hand with its coolness. Then as the torches sent their flames moving into the obscure corner where he had been, a fly saw it up and out, over an empty metal plate and four dead rats, over the stooped screaming figure of a humpback and a scattered line of searching men out to the freshness of the night and the open sea. Only Austeridge Horsey curious at the torches and the shouting looked out the cabin door in time to see a tiny boat scud past back towards Tahiti, and only in his befuddled dreams did he puzzle over how the small craft could sail against the wind or wonder how it could sail so well, when it seemed to be made of rope. End of Chapter 27. Recording by Linda Ferguson. Chapter 28 of Mr. Wicker's Window. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ian Gray. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 28. Chris and Amos lay belly down in a low clump of pine scrub at the top of a precipitous rocky pinnacle. Below them in the blistering noon lay the palace walls of the Lord of the Seven Seas, descendant of the sun and the moon, overlord of the mountains and the plains, prince of all the isles, father of plenty, and brilliance before which all cast down their eyes the emperor of China. The two boys were uninterested in titles, somewhere within that city, within a city, inside the enormous spread of the palace walls that were surrounded in their turn by the city of Peking, lay the goal they had come so far to seek, the jewel tree of the princess of China. Now, like a general planning his campaign, Chris lay looking down at the high angular walls, thinking of how he would gain entry. On regaining the Mirabelle in a boat made from the magic rope, Chris had reappeared among his friends recovered from his fever. He had given much thought to what he considered would be the last dangerous section of the journey, and after listening to what his master said through the shell was permitted to take Amos on this stage of the voyage. It was reasoned if something happened to Chris, Amos might be able to carry out their mission by himself. The boys had come to Peking on camelback, a camel made from the magic rope. As Amos had never seen a real camel, he thought the rope animal quite natural and as remarkable a creature as a real one. Chris took care to make it or disentangle it out of Amos' sight, and so many were the strange and wonderful things to be seen that Amos had no time to concern himself over the reality of a camel. The arid countryside was blanched by the excessive heat. Flies droned over the dates and figs that the boys pulled from their pockets to eat. Amos wriggled with excitement as he pointed out details to Chris. Chris, look at that procession going in the big gate. All those pigtailed gentlemen dressed in embroidered coats. I like that blue one with the butterflies on it. No, I'd sooner have the black satin one with the dragon in red and yellow. He looked again more closely or the one with the peacock in green and purple. Which would you sooner have? Chris paid little attention to Amos' exclamations. Leaning on his elbows and looking at the scene below, his mind worked busily on these last vital problems. But Amos was not waiting for an answer. His mind was on the present moment and the present scene, forgetful of what lay ahead of them a few hours away. He chattered on. I like their funny black hats and droopy mustaches. Why don't they look like us, Chris? He asked and then, who all's in the curtain stretcher they're carrying? It's a palanquin, Amos. They carry dignitaries in them. Hate to be a dignitary in all this heat, Amos said unambiously. What are they doing now? He inquired and both boys parted the prickly pine needles to look out and down. The leader of the procession wrapped three times on the great gate with a gold staff. Sentinels and guards came forward walking on the broad gate top. And after talking with the members of the procession, turned to give an order. Gaeli dressed trumpeters with dragon masks on the visors of their helmets, raised long brass trumpets. A prolonged throbbing, way, whoa, shuddered out. And the great outer gates of the palace, studded with pronged spikes of carved metal, swung slowly outward. 16 men came into sight, eight on either side, pushing wide the gates. Gee, imagine the weight of those doors, Chris murmured, and taking out his spyglass looked through it. Gaeli Moses, he exclaimed, take a look, Amos. Those gates are made of bronze, nearly three feet thick. And now they have the gates open, look at the depth of the walls. They're as deep through as a room. The waiting procession, the richly dressed courteers and curtained palanquin, moved inside, and the gates were slowly pulled closed by lines of men dragging at ropes and chains to shut them. From within the main gate drifted out the sound, becoming fainter and fainter of other trumpets, sounding the order for the opening of other gates. 10 times, the boys counted, the trumpets blew, and the same, way, whoa, throbbed against the sultry air. Lousy me, Amos sighed, when no more trumpets were to be heard. 10 walls and 10 gates, at the very least. Course we don't know. He rolled his worried eyes toward Chris. We don't know whether those folks got to the emperor or not. Likely he's in behind a couple more walls, just to be on the safe side. He searched his friend's face. How are we going past all that many guards and trumpets, Chris? Even if we could tie up a guard or two, how in the world are we gonna push open gates that heavy? Amos need not have been so concerned, for Chris had a good plan. But just at that moment, the heat overcame Chris. Putting his head down on his arms, he slept. Amos slept too, and it must've been several hours later that the rising sound of a crowd, talking and laughing with excitement, penetrated their sleep and brought them to consciousness. For a moment they both lay, rubbing their eyes and peering out. Then they realized, by the growing crowd on either side of the palace gate, and along the narrow street leading away from it, that someone of importance was about to come from the palace and parade through the streets of Peking. Wonder what goes on, Chris muttered, as the crowds below swelled and grew. Boys climbed upon one another's shoulders. Teakwood stools were brought for the richer people to stand on, and along the street that led away to the right around the palace walls, Chris and Amos could see embroidered silks hung from all the windows, and Chinese people in their best holiday clothes laughing excitedly. All were looking toward the gates, and at last, from far within, even more distantly than before, came the first sound of trumpets. These had a sweeter, clearer sound than those the boys had heard at noon. Never heard a sweeter note, Amos said. Might be made a silver, where they sound. The boys counted, and 12 times the low, lovely notes swung out on the air. 12 gates, Chris said to Amos, and look, you were right, they are silver trumpets. The trumpeters atop the great outer gates were now differently dressed, and there were not two, but a dozen, lined along the deep palace walls. The trumpets, 10 feet long, were curved, and of silver that, in the sunlight, dazzled the eye. As they were blown, the final gates were pushed aside. A long procession emerged of such fantasy and variety of color that the two boys were spellbound. Elephants and camels, llamas and horses, all richly comparisoned in eastern silks, passed along with their riders. Guards with curved swords and many thonged whips formed a double hedge between those in the procession and the bystanders. Still others led leopards and black panthers on chains as an added protection to those they guarded. Palenquine after Palenquine passed by, but still the crowds seemed to be waiting for something. Then as the silver trumpets continued their sweet lingering notes, a murmur arose from the crowd. Four lines of youths preceded a Palenquine more finely decked than the rest, and the murmur rose. After it came four lines of Chinese girls, fanning the air with peacock fans on long staves, fans of white egret feathers and ostrich plumes dyed a yellow gold. Amos, Chris breathed, that color, yellow was the royal color of China. He did not have to elaborate his thought for the Palenquine that finally came into sight showed by its richness that it could belong only to royalty and by its beauty and grace only to a woman. Made of silver and rock crystal, studded with diamonds and pearls and hung about with sheer curtains of embroidered yellow silk, the Palenquine belonged without doubt to a young girl of the royal house. As it appeared under the high arch of the outer gate, a roar of joy and greeting arose from the waiting crowd and with one accord, every man bowed low, covering his eyes with the wide sleeve of his left arm. The women and girls in the crowd and those leaning from the upper stories of the houses threw down before the Palenquine objects that flashed and twinkled in the sun. Remembering in time for he had been so much absorbed, he had momentarily forgotten it, Chris whipped out his spyglass and looked at the curtains of the Palenquine. The thin silk was transparent enough under the strong focus of the glass and behind it, Chris could perceive leaning delicately against silk cushions, a Chinese girl as beautiful as a dream. Her slightly up-tilted eyes were large and dark. Her skin put a magnolia flower to shame. Her mouth was lifted in a charming smile and her long exquisite fingers held a spray of jeweled flowers. All about the Palenquine rained a shower of jeweled buds and petals. For no doubt a real flower was thought too inferior for the only child of the descendant of the sun and the moon, prince of all the isles and lord of the seven seas, the princess of China. End of Chapter 28. Recording by Ian Gray. Chapter 29 of Mr. Wicker's Window. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ian Gray. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 29. Chris put down his spyglass and the two boys hidden on the piney knoll watched the procession out of sight. I'm supposed to take something from her? Chris said with his eyes sparkling. But I know now what I'm going to give her back in return. I feel sort of sorry for that girl, he added thoughtfully. What are we going to do, Chris? Amos wanted to know. What all comes next? And have we some more of those dates? Chris passed him some. We have to wait until dusk anyway, he said. His voice abstracted. And by the look of the light, that won't be long. The piney knoll was steep and rocky and only two adventurous boys would ever have reached the top. Two precipitous on which to build houses, it rose far above the surrounding roofs of Peking. The green and scarlet of curved tiles spread under the boys' sight like a curling sea. Before them, stretched out in long angular wings to right and left, swept the palace walls. Listening and watching, the boys gathered by the silver trumpet notes that the princess and a retinue had re-entered the palace walls by another gate. Thinking about it, Chris mused. I wonder if that first palanquin held someone she's to marry. Could be. And if so, this may be her last appearance to the people of the city before leaving for a new domain. She would probably take the jewel tree with her. I can't imagine a woman leaving a thing like that behind. He paused, remembering. She held a spray of jeweled flowers in her hand, maybe off the tree. And I never saw anything like it. Well, can't do a thing until dust comes down. The evening was not long in coming, and Chris, who had been sitting cross-legged under the little crooked pines, looked across with great concern to where Amos lay on his back, dozing. I can't take him along, Chris thought, and I can't leave him alone if I should get caught. What in the world do I do? Then, remembering the bag of magic odds and ends, Chris put his hand inside it and drew out a small folded piece of silk and netting. On it, a piece of paper, like a label, showed Mr. Wicker's fine script. Chris looked closer and read, strike three, strike three. Chris held the folded object in his hand and then glanced at Amos. Amos slept. Going softly out of the pine grove to a narrow ledge of rock where he was out of sight, Chris put the object down and said, strike three, nothing happened. The object remained an object. Then suddenly understanding, Chris struck the stone ledge three times. At once, the folded object began to unfold itself and to puff itself up like a little mushroom. In a matter of seconds, Chris could see what it was becoming and before he could wink 10 times, a balloon with a basket hanging from it, quite big enough for two boys, hung swaying in the air. Chris examined it with pleasure and then struck the ground three times again. The balloon gently collapsed and refolded itself, basket and all, into its original neat shape. Now if that isn't handy, Chris exclaimed. Then, looking at the light fading in the sky, he picked up the folded balloon and went to wake at Amos. Amos, he said, shaking his friend's shoulder, it's time for me to go, are you awake? Amos blinked a few times and said, he thought so. Then listen to me, Chris told him earnestly and listen hard. Amos sat up more alertly. I have a handy thing here, which is for you to use only, do you hear? Only, if I don't come back. Amos's eyes began to get brighter and he swallowed. Don't come back, la, Chris. Don't leave me in this heathen country where nobody understands good English, he cried. Why, unless I'd steal, and Miss Becky told me, never to do that, but unless I did, how could I eat in these foreign parts? Chris sat back on his haunches. Well, I don't know how you could myself, but don't you cross any bridges until you come to them. Look, he held out the folded balloon. If I'm not back by two sun-ups from now, I may have to hide all during tomorrow. If I'm not back by then, put this package out beyond the trees in the clearing. That's very important, you got that? I haven't got anything, but a few old dried up fruits. Amos pouted, that's all. No, Amos, Chris gave him another rousing shake. I mean, do you understand that much? Amos brightened at once and broke into a broad grin. Oh yes, of course. Why didn't you say so in the first place? You said put the package out in the clear. Where's that on this tippy top of a hill? Amos asked, looking about. The ledge near where we climbed up. That's big enough, Chris reminded him. Oh yes, Amos said, looking wise. Well, Chris took up again. You put the package on the ledge and strike the ground three times, like this. And before Chris could stop him, Amos had struck the earth beside him twice before Chris seized his hand in mid-air. Amos, not now. I said only if you have to get away. If someone comes after you, or if I don't come back, promise me not to strike three at all, except for either of those two reasons. Amos raised his right hand, looking very solemn. I promise, he said. Only he added, looking bewildered and already somewhat forlorn. What happens when I do hit three times? Why, it's a special kind of balloon, Chris began. After correcting what had almost been a bad slip. A what? Amos stuck his head forward, trying hard to understand. A balloon? Oh, Chris stopped and stared at Amos. Perhaps balloons had not yet been invented. How very confusing. It's something that will hold you up in the air. There's a basket for you to sit in. No, sir, Amos cried, wagging his head decisively from side to side. Me in the air over the roofs and high up? No, indeedy, Chris, not me. Chris was becoming exasperated. He had important things to do. Look, Amos, if you have to use it, you'll be in such a bad fix that being up in the air will seem like the very best thing that could happen. Stop running. I'll be back, I hope. He turned away toward the ledge and clearing. And now wish me luck and stay here and wait for me. Don't follow me now or watch or I might fail. Amos jumped up from the pine-covered ground. Oh, Chris, he cried. His voice sharp with distress. Can't I go? You might get hurt. There's no telling what could happen if you're all alone. Chris was tempted to take his friend with him, but someone must get the news back to the Mirabelle if he should fail. This happened. He did not doubt that the magic balloon would carry Amos safely to the ship. No, he said after a long moment. Better not, but I'd sure like to, Amos. Now don't lose that package. It's your escape. Wish me luck. Amos clasped his hand and then rushing off, dashed back again. Here, Chris, our fruits. Better not to eat strange food in this foreigny place. Good luck, he added. Chris stuffed the dried fruit in his pocket. Amos turned back into the darkening pine knoll and Chris pushed his way out to the narrow steep ledge, hanging high above the roofs of Peking. Chris uncoiled the magic rope from around his waist and standing as far out on the rock ledge as he dared in order to have the greatest possible freedom of movement. He attempted for the first time to draw an eagle in the air with the rope. It was a complicated, fast maneuver. The rope twisted and whipped in the air and the result was a molted-looking, droop-tailed buzzard. Swings were not wide enough. It's back very insecure to look at. In short, Chris knew it was a total failure. He tried again, racing against the oncoming darkness, and this time he succeeded. Although, when he pulled it close and straddled the body of the magic bird, his heart was in his throat that it might unfurl itself, become just a rope, and hurl him to his death far below. But this second eagle seemed secure enough. Chris pressed his hands on the wings, spread out on either side. With a jolt, they flapped and the boy's strange conveyance moved somewhat unsteadily through the air. Chris, frightened but resolute, found that by touching the head of the bird in the direction he wanted to go, the magic eagle would turn, and after a few moments to test out his new method of travel, Chris coasted over the gaily-tiled roofs as he hunted for something. Peking at that time had many palaces, wealthy Chinese and people of tidal and family-owned beautiful houses set in terraced gardens surrounded by parks and ancient trees. Somewhere, Chris had heard of this and remembered it, and now in the dusk that was nearly night, the eagle carried him silently over the city as he looked for what he wanted to find. At last, the very fragrance, rising up toward him on the night air, guided him to a large palace set in the gardens. Pools of water reflected the first stars among their lily-pads. The shaded walks and lawns were deserted at that hour. Swooping down and flying back and forth to make sure he would not be seen, Chris grounded the eagle and holding fast to one wing-tip in case he should have to take off in a hurry, he walked up and down, examining and searching. End of chapter 29, recording by Ian Gray. Chapter 30 of Mr. Wicker's Window. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Ian Gray. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 30. The night was too clear to suit Chris for the dangerous work that lay ahead. The eagle bore him up again from the garden and, turning back, lifted high in the air as it neared the maze of walls of the emperor's palace. Chris longed to fly lower, but he was afraid that one of the many guards might give the alarm. The eagle, flying between the palace and the moon, cast a quick-racing shadow over wall and ground. The one advantage on such a clear night, Chris thought, when he could be easily spotted, was in the silence of the magic bird. He bent over to peer down between the eagle's beaked head and widespread beating wings. Wall after wall, palace and garden within palace and garden he saw. Windows were lit like fireflies far below him and the series of courtyards opened themselves in seemingly endless duplication. How, he wondered, could he ever find the inner garden? Well hidden, certainly, where the princess of China walked under trees and looked at her goldfish in long clear pools. Then he remembered with a start. The folded paper seized so long ago in a ship anchored on the Potomac, a cabin under a smoking lamp, the strong scent of flowers, the monkey's form, came back into his memory and he felt in the leather pouch for Claggett Chew's plan. His fingers touched it and brought out the creased finger-marked scrap of paper. In the moonlight he unfolded it, sitting on the eagle's back high above the walls and palaces of the Emperor of China. He found that he could follow from his height and check with the map, building by building and one courtyard after another. Moving cautiously forward in the air, he looked at the heavy cross mark made by Claggett Chew the night the Maribel had set sail. Then, all at once beneath him, Chris made out walls ahead that seemed higher than the others. He flew over temples with gently rocking bells hung at their curled leaves and over peaked rooftops of carved stone until, reaching a place apparently identical with the cross on the map, he dared to drop a little lower above a certain courtyard. As he did so, he saw that the guard houses were set about on the top of the wall, which measured about 10 feet from side to side, all faced outward, away from the gardens they protected, hidden now in shadow. Why, it's like a prison, Chris thought, except that the guards aren't allowed to look down at her. Poor kid, imagine living here all your days. No wonder she was pleased at being in a procession yesterday. No fragrance, except that of cool water, came up from the courtyard to Chris. Going higher into the air, he hovered there on his eagle's back, watching the guard houses. He timed the guards, counting. After an hour, he found there were two minutes between the time guard number six reached his post and guard number seven went back to replace him. Chris waited again, watching the guards and counting half a loud, in case he missed that two minute interval. One, there he goes across to two. Two, there two goes back again. Three, there are three marches along to guard house four. Four, there he goes to five. Chris's breath came quickly and his heart began to pound in his ears. Five, five starts out towards six. Six, and now they change swords or something and here I go. Pressing on the back of the eagle, the birds sank silently into the black well of the courtyard, past the guard house and down. Just as guard number seven emerged to walk back to replace number six. The walls of the princess's courtyard were indeed as high and forbidding as those of a dungeon. A shimmer of water reflected the night sky and looking down, Chris saw a dark, glistening mass beneath him. It seemed to be trees, but when his dangling legs touched them, sharp edges cut his legs and he quickly veered away. At last, coming down at the edge of the pool, his eyes became used to the gloom and he could see about him. The garden ground crunched under his feet and glowed in the night and bending to touch it, Chris's fingertip came away dusted with gold. Gally, Moses, he breathed and looked about. The edge of the long rectangular pool was of silver, the walk around it of Jasper and Chalcedony and as he lifted his eyes to look farther, he saw that the entire garden was made up of trees with jeweled leaves. No wonder the leaves cut my legs, Chris thought to himself, they're probably emeralds. Towing the eagle by its beak, he wandered about. There was neither grass nor flowers, no true plants or trees. All bushes, borders and shaded walks were of jewels. They gave out onto the air no scent of greenness and no welcoming scent of flowers. Gee, Chris almost said aloud, who'd want to play on ground up gold? Why, except that it's yellow, it might as well be gravel and no trees, not real ones. Gee, she must be a pretty miserable girl. I wonder if birds like the jewel trees. Looking into the shrubs of coral or jade or amethyst, Chris found no nests and shook his head. Guess I brought the right replacement after all, he decided. Now to work, which shall I take? He made a tour of the jewel gardens and at the end of the pool, facing the carved jeweled doorway and windows of a pavilion set into the surrounding walls, Chris found a tree he thought right. Small and round, as if freshly trimmed, it answered Mr. Wicker's description of months ago. Leaves of emeralds, buds of diamonds, flowers of sapphires, and fruits of rubies studded thick with pearls. Taking out his magic knife, in a second, Chris had cut away a large circle of earth in a tub shape to shelter the roots and carried his heavy burden to the eagle's back. There, he took off something which he planted where the jewel tree had been and, cupping his hands, watered it from the pool as best he could. Just as he finished and was moving away, a movement in the black rectangle of the pavilion door at the far end of the garden caught his eye. He had only time enough to pull the eagle, the jewel tree and himself into the cloaking shadow of a nearby avenue of emerald trees to avoid being seen. The movement was pale and slight against the blackness of the open door, and the night was very still. As Chris held his breath, the dampened leaves and petals of the bush he had planted sent their green fragrance lifting and turning on the night air. As if that had been the signal it had long waited for, a dust-colored bird flew down to perch on a thorny stem. It was a nightingale. Its songs started slowly and softly at first, and then, as it forgot that it was alone, the lovely variations grew, peeling out where no bird song had ever been heard before. Chris was not the only one who had never heard a nightingale. To the other occupant of the jeweled garden, it was newer and more beautiful than anything she had ever heard. The princess's tiny feet made no sound on the gold gravel as she edged nearer to the bush and the song. At last, the nightingale flew away and the scent of the roses, drifting toward a princess who had only been permitted flowers of stone, was overwhelming. She went up and broke off a flower as red as a ruby and as red as her mouth, as red too as her blood for a thorn stabbed her and she nearly dropped the rose with a soft cry. But the wonder of it was stronger than the pain and she buried her face in the freshness of the red rose, the first flower she had ever seen. Behind her, rising gently and quietly out of sight, was a smiling boy and a tree of jewels she would never miss. End of Chapter 30. Recording by Ian Gray. Chapter 31 of Mr. Ricker's Window. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mr. Ricker's Window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 31. Chris's thoughts were so taken up with the pleasure of the little Chinese princess that her first rose that he had miscalculated. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten about the guards and his excitement at holding the jewelry and at getting away. And just as the eagle rose to the top of the wall, one of the guards saw him. Had it been earlier, Chris could have risen quickly out of sight, but the jewelry was heavy in itself. The earth holding its roots was an additional weight so that the eagle only rose half as quickly as it had before. The guard gave a shout and the spear whistled past Chris's ear. Instantly the flames of bonfires spurred it on all the walls and to his tear, Chris found himself in a glare of light as powerful as modern searchlights. Clutched the jewelry, urging the magic bird up, but there are limits even to magic and the bird was moving at the peak of its ability. Black racing figures darted along the walls and the flames of the watchfires left higher in the air. Now arrows were singing their keening note of death about the boy lifting so slowly into the night. Chris, crouching behind the jewelry, was rocked and nearly unseated from the eagle when an arrow hit the earth around the tree roots, embedding itself deeply and quivering there at an angle. Shouts and confusion grew, but after a few terrestrial moments, Chris knew he was high enough to be out of danger. He gave a deep, shuddering sigh of relief and turned the head of the laboring eagle toward the city. His thoughts were on escape, but first he had a duty as an honorable person he felt bound to perform. He was naturally observant. He'd also made a point of noticing landmarks so that he found the garden from which he had taken the rose bush without too much trouble. What he was totally unprepared for was that the entire city of Peking, aroused by the watchfires on the palace walls, was awakened in alarm and the light of flares and lanterns glowed from every house. Nevertheless, to replace the rose bush was an honorable necessity, and in spite of wide canary yellow blocks streaming from the windows of the lesser palace and falling in broad sections over the lawns and far into the gardens, Chris came down as much in the shadows of trees as he could and breaking off a sprig of the jewelry stuck it in the ground where the rose bush had been, then quickly regaining the eagle's back. He was lifted into the air and up over the roofs. What was his consternation, however, on nearing the pine knoll to see the whole group of scrubby trees aflame and no sign of Amos? Pine needles and tree chunks thick with resin burnt fiercely. Chris did not dare come too close. Not only was the heat intense, but the crowds collecting below looked upward to watch in a puzzled way while others ran from near the palace gates to gaze and speculate. Chris turned sadly away, large tears for Amos running down his cheeks, his heart constricted and his eyes half blinded. Went from a great distance, he heard a trailing call. Oh, Chris, you, Chris! Chris's heart leapt up and wiping his eyes clear, he looked in the direction of the sand. A balloon was moving rapidly away over the peak roofs of Peking, careening slightly from side to side as it sailed on the night breeze. By the time Chris had caught up with Amos and the balloon, Peking lay far behind them. Holding onto the edge of the basket, Chris blurred it out. What in the world goes on, Amos? I thought you were burned alive. I was never more scared in my life. Amos' eyes, wider than ever from the excitement of events, batted at Chris. You're scared. What do you think I am? Get me out of this. I never did want to be up in the air. Know how, and I want out of this now. But what about the fire, Amos? Chris persisted, holding through the jewelry with one hand and the balloon basket with the other. How did you get out? Amos sent a squeamish glance out of the corner of one eye at the moving ground beneath him and then realizing that they were on their way back to the mirror, though, swallowed and began to talk. I waited, like you said, and I guess I fell asleep. All at once such a noise and flames flashing woke me up and right away, seeing fires and commotion all over the palace walls, I suppose they had spotted you somehow. I thought, should another fire break out somewhere else or might pull the crowds away from the palace or make them think something was going on up there? So I lit a fire with my flint and then ran right quick with a package to the ledge, struck three times and shut my eyes. Here Amos covered his eyes with one hand and got in and this silly thing's been a tip in and a teeter in ever since. Chris brought the balloon and eagle down into a rice field and the two boys transferred the jewelry to the greater safety of the balloon basket. Amos, having the wonderful jewelry to guard, forgot his fears and sat down beside it, where he soon fell asleep. Chris, tying the tail of the eagle to the side of the basket with a shirt, towed Amos and the jewelry through the air all that night and all the next day. They came down at noon and deserted part of the country so that Chris could sleep and rest and Amos find fresh water for the leather and bottles they had strapped to their ways. Then they went on until they saw the sea and the wavering line of the coast below and ahead of them. The eagle and balloon came gently down at dusk. The balloon was folded into its small size and put back into the pouch around Chris's neck. Out of sight of Amos, Chris transformed the eagle to a boat in which in the dark of the night the two boys reached the side of the mirror bell with their precious cargo. The sailors of the mirror bell were asleep but Chris roused the captain who helped them secretly carry the jewelry to a corner of his cabin. All hands were then called on deck and everything was hurry and bustle. Before dawn had broken, the mirror bell had left the coast of China and was well out to sea. End of chapter 31. Chapter 32 of Mr. Wicker's window. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mr. Wicker's window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 32. It was not until Chris, relieved, proud, and happy that the success of his mission opened his sea chest and took out the shell that he had the faintest vibration of trouble or danger. Until then he had lived, breathed and thought only of obtaining the jewelry. And once that had been accomplished, he felt that his anxieties were over. However, as he shut and locked the cabin door behind him, feeling with an increased zest the surgeon rock of the mirror bell under his feet as she plunged through the sea, something brought him up short and took the glow from his face. Slowly, and with a grave expression, Chris went to his sea chest and took the shell from it, but he almost knew before he heard it what Mr. Wicker would say. Nevertheless, when through the whirls of the shell at his ear, he heard the familiar voice so far away and so long unheard, his eyes lit up again. You have done better than my fondest hopes, Christopher, my boy, came Mr. Wicker's voice. I cannot commend you enough for the success of your difficult journey. And the manner in which, with courage, quick wit, and fortitude, you met every danger. Amos, as much to be praised to, he is a loyal friend, and I am proud of him as well as of you. Chris, kneeling by the brass-studded chest with the shell held to his ear, could easily bring before his inner eye the cozy room in Georgetown, crackling wogs upon the hearth, and the voice of Becky Boozer raised a musty song coming from the direction of the kitchen. He missed it, much as he loved the mirror bell, and much as he prized the friendship of all aboard her, still Mr. Wicker and Becky held in a special place in his heart, and he longed all at once with almost intolerable sharpness to be at home once more. That his mother was getting better, he had never doubted, but kneeling there alone, he suddenly wanted to have done with adventure for a while. My boy, are you listening? came Mr. Wicker's words, and Chris's thoughts brought him back with a jolt to the cabin of the ship sailing through the China seas. Christopher, my poor lad, Mr. Wicker said at his ear, had you forgotten the vulture? No, he answered for the boy. Not altogether, but perhaps just a little, yet make no mistake, the captain of the vulture has not forgotten you, nor is he under any misapprehension as to who it was who so skilfully crippled his ship so that he did not reach Peking before you. Mr. Wicker's voice took on the edge it always held when he spoke of Quaget Chu. Quaget Chu waits for you beyond Shanghai in the East China Sea. Be wary and be rested, Christopher. For you will have a battle such as you have never dreamed of, and even I cannot tell you how it will end. It will depend on your quickness and ingenuity, and do not forget the leather pouch. The voice of his friend hesitated, and then so faintly and from so far that it was all Chris could do to hear it. I repeat, be wary, Christopher. He will do everything in his power. The voice faded away, and Chris, with heavy gestures, replaced the shell, shut the lid of his sea chest, and unlocking the door, went with dragging feet to tell Captain Blizzard what awaited them. The wind was only moderately fair so that the Mirabelle took some time passing beyond the Yellow Sea. During those days, Chris practiced his magic with more concentration than ever before. He rested and slept, ate hugely, and exercised by climbing the mass of the Mirabelle so that by the time, a long dark line was sighted on their starboard side on the Chinese coast in the approach to Shanghai, Chris was fit and well as he had never been before. Warned by Chris in time, Captain Blizzard, on hearing of the dangers ahead, had determined to put into port at Shanghai and there with much haggling and bargaining, but for cannons and ammunition. He also laid in a store of swords, daggers, and assorted weapons for all on board. Believing that an ounce of prevention was better than a pound of cure, the worthy Captain drilled all hands on the Mirabelle twice a day thereafter. This, the weather being fair and the ship needing only the helmsman and the lookout to care for her, the sailors were quite willing to do, more especially when they're Captain, in whom they had unbounded faith, told them he had a good reason to believe they would have a nasty and perhaps disastrous encounter with the pirate ship during which they had been fair to be bested if they did not be stir themselves and prepare for it. The men entered into the training with gusto. They made dummies which were hung on ropes and maneuvered by their friends, braced in the rigging. The dummies were suddenly swung out and down in every direction and imitation of pirates boarding the ship and were fallen upon by the sailors of the Mirabelle with roars of glee as if they were at that very moment being tackled by the pirate crew. Then they practiced fast turning and tackling of the ship and even in between the regular hours set aside by the Captain for what he termed fighting time. Several groups of men could always be seen on some part of the deck, practicing dueling with sword and dagger. In short, long before the Mirabelle reached the East China Sea, its crew had become proficient in all manner of hand-to-hand fighting. The Mirabelle was level with the Ryukyu Islands on a gusty, glary day when the lookout's long-drawn-out cry floated down from the crow's nest to those sailors who were engaged in mock-fight on deck. Sail-ho! Instantly every man was at the ship's side shading his eyes against the dazzle that made a brassy light over a sea and sky. The Ryukyu Islands, off the port beam, were not visible in the metallic haze that grew as a sun-arched tire. The fitful wind gave a promise of stopping altogether and leaving both ships be calmed. Chris, on the bridge beside the Captain, stood looking through his spy-glass of the advancing sail. Captain Blizzard lowered his own glass to turn inquiringly to Chris. Yes, the boy said at last, I'm sure now, I ought to know those sails. They're unmistakable, that is the vulture, sir. Captain Blizzard wheeled about before the last word had left Chris's lips and bellowed at the top of his lungs. All hands on deck, he roared, man the guns, bring out the ammunition and every man to his place. The training the men had gone through instantly asserted itself. Although there was a great deal of running about up and down the ladder to the hold and of handling the heavy ammunition, all was orderly and not an extra word was spoken. There was little enough time left over, however. The vulture approached rapidly and then crossed the bow of the Mirbell so narrowly that the Mirbell had to put hard about and Captain Blizzard roared orders to take in sail in order not to smash into the pirate vessel before it had been carried by the breeze beyond its prey. This maneuver by Quaggitchu momentarily threw the Mirbell's crew into confusion and turned their attention to the hasty management of their ship. To Chris, working with the men at whatever was most urgent, it seemed only an instant before the vulture was again alongside the Mirbell and Quaggitchu stood on the gun whale, hailing them. Heave, too, or you shall sink to the sharks, he cried. Look to yourself, pirate, Captain Blizzard thundered in reply and giving the signal the unsuspected guns of the Mirbell belched out their deadly charges. Quaggitchu was knocked back to the deck of a ship and Chris had time to see him shake off the hand of a sailor who would have helped him to safety. Chris also saw, peaking out from the doorway of Quaggitchu's cabin, the white horrified face of Osterbridge Hossie, who could not stand the sight of blood. So common, the face withdrew, and Chris could imagine the dandy playing cards or reading the best he could in the den until the battle should be over. The pirates, many wounded and all taken aback at the unforeseen presence of guns onboard the Mirbell were tough fighters notwithstanding and moved the vulture in ever near until the two ships with fallen mass and entangled rigging were locked on the brazen sea and deathly struggle. Brave as the seamen of the Mirbell proved themselves to be, the pirates were seasoned in piteous combat. The guns of both ships roared and coughed in the battle rage through the noon into the afternoon. Finally, Chris could bear no more. The crew of his ship were weakening, even as were those of the vulture, and shuddering though he was thought of the sharks in the sea, Chris knew he had to use every method in his power if any onboard were to survive. Keeping his own form, he jumped into the blood-tinged water, his magic knife open and ready in his hand. End of chapter 32. Chapter 33 of Mr. Wicker's Window. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson, chapter 33. The smoke of the guns of both ships so hung upon the air that Chris countered on its heavy curtain to screen him from his enemies, he swam to the far side of the attacking vessel and there forced his magic knife for the second time against the side of the vulture. He was treading water, holding to a rope that dangled over the side of the ship, when, with no interior tremor of warning, a cut that he almost thought had penetrated to the bone lashed across his shoulders, narrowly missing his left ear. Without stopping to think, Chris took half a breath and submerged as deeply as he could go, hearing about him, even through the sounds of the battle and the wavering water, the fleck of clay get chewed and metal tipped with as it hit the water where he had been only a second before. Chris would have dived under the great barnacled hull of the vulture, then and there to come up on the other side but good swimmer though he was. He was unsure that he could hold even a full breath for so long a dive, but when he had it to this he had no time to do more than gasp a momentary breath of air, and then even as he rose to the surface with bursting lungs he saw the figure of a man leap into the water from the side of the vulture. Before the bubbles of the man's descent had time to disappear, the most dreaded of all sides first swimmer showed itself above the water. It was a sinister triangle of a shark's fin, cutting the surface of the sea as it advanced with terrifying speed to where Chris gazed, almost paralyzed with horror. Thrusting the knife into the patch of his neck, Chris took the shape of a dolphin and plunged deeply, even as the infuriated shark was carried over and beyond him by its own impetus before it could return. But it did turn with lightning speed and Chris knew he had no protection against that murder's underslung jaw wracked above and below with deadly teeth. The shark, in one long powerful movement, had turned and gone under the dolphin, which now raced upward from the dim, lightless steps of the sea to the surface where it hoped to escape. The shark turned on its back with emotion at once lazy and sickly in its assurance of its prey. Its soft greenish-white belly glimmered slimyly in the sea, its frightful jaws open as it came almost languidly up through the water, certain of snapping its adversary in half. But in that one moment when it turned its belly uppermost, its eyes were unable to watch its goal, and in that moment the dolphin made a desperate leap from the water and a seabird soared into the air. The seabird had no more than wheeled sight, the shark below, when a scream from the air above it made it instantly drop and shift to one side as a hawk, talons spread and eyes red with hatred, plunged down from a great height, its beak open to seize and to run. The seabird, veering away on the wind, became a fly, but the hawk instantly vanished to be replaced by a bat, which darted after the fly with such velocity that it was the current of air from its wings that drove the fly closer to the pirate ship. With a despairing effort, the fly flew directly into the smoke of the battle, and at that moment a mouse hid in the corner near an overturned cask, shaking it on all its limbs, its pointed teeth chattering with fright, finally regaining its breath, eventually to look around the corner, all seemed serene to the mouse. He saw no shadow of danger, although sounds of battle still ebbed and floated on the deck below it. Crisscrossed by shouts and orders, screams and groans as the pirates and sailors of the Mirbell doggedly fought on. The mouse wished to retake its own shape and continue its work with the magic knife, which had been uninterrupted, it thought, too soon to have done any good. Elastid decided to run along the deck in your quagget-cheese cabin, from there it hoped to reach the side of the ship nearest to the Mirbell. As it slipped from its hiding place and began to run, it realized too late its mistake, and panic almost overcame it. Her cat had been crouched behind it and now gave him mighty pounce. One outstretched paw came down on the mouse's tail, but the mouse wrenched it free in desperate and panting, dashed into the first opening it saw. This proved to be no less than quagget-cheese cabin, the door of which had been left open so that Osterbridge-Hossie could watch the fight with the least possible discomfort. He sat, somnolent, in a comfortable chair, his long legs stretched out before him, smoking a clay pipe, his attention wandering. As it so often did, he failed to see the mouse who ran under his legs and into the shadow beneath them. Frantic mouse, now determined, and the seconds left to it for decision to attempt a bold move and a flash. In fact, as a black cat with angry yellow slitted eyes put its head around the door-jam, a jade-green parakeet with red and yellow breast feathers hopped onto Osterbridge-Hossie's ankle, and with the speed tempered by its most engaging ways, sidled up Osterbridge-Hossie's outstretched leg, the yellow-eyed cat made a dash with both claws outstretched to fall upon the bird, but the parakeet fluttered into the air and out of reach and came down higher up on Osterbridge-Hossie's knee. Osterbridge, startled from his daydream, shooed the cat away and got up precipitously enough to give it a kick, which sent it meowing from the cabin. Osterbridge, vastly pleased to see his green parakeet again, was wreathed in smiles. "'Ah, now,' he exclaimed, holding out a condescending finger, pitted Monchur back again, how too simply enchanting, just when my poor Osterbridge was so bored and had no one to talk to, well, my pretty, and both Osterbridge and the parakeet cocked their heads at one another. "'And where have you been, I wonder?' Osterbridge examined the little bird perched on his finger and his eyes were thoughtful. "'It is true, you have a tiny mark at the side of your jaw, if parakeets have jaws, my friend, but there is no such thing as magic, not the kind of magic whereby a human can be something else.' He broke into peals of high laughter. "'What a joke if it were possible! Know what could I be, eh?' He looked fondly at the bird and the bird looked back at him, staring to open and speak, and made a small bit clear, "'Ha! Ha! yourself!' returned Osterbridge in high good humor. He leaned back in his chair. "'Now all this is the most engaging train of thought,' he pursued. "'If I could change myself, what should I be?' He felt amusing, and as he did so, the dreaded shadow christened, anticipated, fell across the doorway. A moment later, clugged at you, wimping from an old wound in a new way received bruise, stood in the entrance. Osterbridge haciand. "'Ah, there you are at last,' clugged,' he said. "'Battle all over. It still sounds rather ferocious to me, but of course I am no expert. Heaven forbid!' Osterbridge ended, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling with his vague smile. As Clugget Chew did not reply, Osterbridge looked back at him. The pirate's eyes were fixed on the parakeet and his twitching fingers played with the steel-tipped whip. Clugget Chew's voice, when it came in, was as sharp and as cold as a dagger in a dead man. "'I will have that bird,' Osterbridge,' he said. Osterbridge's expression did not change, but his eyes did, and they became almost as icy as Clugget Chew's. "'Oh, no, you will not, Clugget,' he said, and his high-pitched voice managed to be saturated with sarcasm. "'This is the one thing that is keeping me from unutterable boredom while you go into your intermeetable fight,' he cost, give Clugget Chew a cutting look. "'You know how I feel about piracy, too terribly degrading, though I can see it as excitement and rewards. It is unnecessary.'" Clugget Chew's eyes had a way of not blinking. They held a crocodile fixity, his tone, when he spoke again, did not vary. "'I am not a traitor, Osterbridge. Nor shall I bandy words with you on this subject. Give me that bird, or I shall take it from you.'" Osterbridge hossy rose with a slow grace from his chair, his hand curled gently, but protectingly around his parakeet. "'Clugget,' he said in his thin voice, that now cut with the unexpected thinness of paper, "'I am sorry to say such a thing to you, which your fever during the weeks just passed has undoubtedly altered your brain. You are a madman, Clugget.'" Osterbridge hossy removed himself with deliberation from the proximity of the doorway, placing himself on the other side of the cabin table, over which hung the swinging lamp. He did not turn his back to Cluggetchew, nor did he take his eyes from him. "'Kindly leave the room, Clugget,' he went on, and a voice too quiet to be otherwise than poisonous. "'Until you are more yourself, your conduct and your tone are unbecoming to a gentleman,' Osterbridge said, with his head held high in disdainful dignity. They were an extraordinary sight, the shaven-headed clay-faced pirate looming so high and so huge in the doorway that he filled it all together. His clothes torn, filthy and stained from the battle, and from careless weeks at sea. His companion was the travesty of his one-time elegance, dirty lace, ruffles spotted by forgotten meals, his velvet coat marked by chair-backs and soiled from months of constant wear. His hair washed and sleazy, caught back, no longer curled with a fine exactitude. Both men had been housed together for too long. Long ago, they had exhausted all topics of conversation. Their two difficult personalities had for months been festering, each at the side of the other. Now Claggett chewed ground out between his clenched teeth. You were a fool, Osterbridge. Have always been one, and will so remain. Do you defy me, and do not give up that bird? As hell is my witness, I shall snatch it from you with this whip, and nothing shall stop me. Osterbridge reached behind him with his right hand, holding the parakeet in an increasingly uncomfortable and tightening grip in his left. On the wall behind him, his rapier and its scabbard delicately incised in showing the fine workmanship of its French origin. With a quick, deaf movement, Osterbridge's fingers had found the hilt and drawn the rapier out, his face snarling, his eyes expressionless. They were fixed on Claggett's shoe, who had not moved from where he leaned against the side of the doorway. Osterbridge Hossie's voice was almost more frightening when he spoke again than Claggett's shoes, as he slowly brought the rapier to his side with quiet, calculated gestures. I have had enough of your ordering, Claggett. You may order your scurvy men about as you wish, half-wits, rascals, thieves and murderers who know no better than to do your bidding, knowing they may well die by your hands as by some other, but you have met your match. I, Osterbridge Hossie, shall not give in to a madman and a murdering pillager, how I ever came to join you or your pirates, God alone knows, but you shall not govern me, nor shall you have one object that is my own. On guard, he cried, whisking out the rapier. As he did so, such as the force and training of habit, his left hand automatically came up in the first position of the fencer and duelist, and as it came up and the fingers slackened about the parakeet, the long whip lashed out and curled around Osterbridge Hossie's hand. Parakeet ducked into encircling fingers. Osterbridge Hossie let out a piercing scream, more rage than a pain, and opened his hand. The parakeet, liberated, flew straight into the face of the man with the whip, pecking at it with its sharp beak, scratching at it with his pin-like claws and beating its wings in such confusing fury that the pirate bobbed his head. At the same time, the big man stepped backward, throwing up his left arm in an attempt to either catch the bird or drive it off. But the bird's attack lasted for only a moment. Then, his claw-get-chews fingers grasped it. The parakeet was off over his shoulder and lost in the din and obscurity of the battle. Behind it, it heard the cries of hatred and rage, as the pirate and Osterbridge Hossie faced one another in the cabin to fight with weapons' sword amid the crash of overturned tables and chairs and the splintering crack of the lamp and the window panes. End of Chapter 33. Chapter 34 of Mr. Wicker's Window. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ian Gray. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 34. Safe on the Mirabelle, Chris, exhausted and increasingly conscious of the pain of the whiplash, took his own shape with size of thankfulness and looked about him. A wind was rising, rocking the interlocked ships and he could plainly see that the crew of the Mirabelle had done enormous damage to the vulture and its attacking men. Cannon shots from the opening sally and at such close range had broken two of its three masts and the decks of the vulture were a clutter and tangle of lines, sails and splintered spars. The fact that the men of the Mirabelle were in better physical shape than the pirates stood them in good stead, for their agility and strength had carried them through the battle even against the wilyer and more murderous knowledge of Claggett Chew's men. The pirates, Chris could see, were turning back and those who still fought were one and all wounded or grazed and losing ground with every passing moment. Chris had been so terrified and panic stricken by his own personal danger and fight for life that it took him a few minutes to catch his breath and grasp the situation from where he stood on the captain's bridge. Wondering if he still had the strength to force a leak in the vulture's hull as he had begun to do, he felt in the leather pouch at his neck for the knife. At the bottom of the pouch, his fingernails hit a gritty substance and into his head came an echo of Mr. Wicker's words. Remember the leather pouch. Taking out the knife, the folded balloon and the map of where the jewel tree had been, Chris, leaning against the side of the Mirabelle, shook out the grainy stuff into the palm of one hand. It looked like ground up lava, gray, black, almost a powder. It had a faintly sulfurous smell. As he turned it speculatively in his hand, wondering how he was supposed to use it, a few grains sifted between Chris' fingers and fell over the side into the sea. Instantly, as soon as they touched the water, several infinitesimal flames started up, burning on the waves as heartily as if they had fallen onto dry grass and their heat produced a sturdy mist which rose in heavy spirals from every grain. Then Chris knew what it was for. Shaking every particle carefully back into the bag, he hurried to find Captain Blizzard. Sir, he cried as soon as he was within air shot, the pirates are bested and we can make a safe escape if you will give an order to set loose the grappling irons and lines and bid our men raise sail. He looked eagerly at Captain Blizzard. The pirates look pretty tired now, but the vulture might pursue us if I didn't know a way to stop her. The captain looked thoughtfully at Chris and hesitated not at all. Too much had already depended on the boy and had been faithfully carried out for even Captain Blizzard to doubt of his ability. Orders were quickly given to cast off from the pirate ship and Chris disappeared to a hidden corner. There he hid everything the leather pouch had contained excepting the grainy powder. Next, taking the bag from around his neck and leaving the mouth of it wide open, he changed his shape to that of a seagull. Taking the pouch in its beak, the gulls soared high above the two vessels, now drifting imperceptibly apart. Sounds of violent fighting could still be heard inside Claggett Chew's cabin, but the pirate crew seemed grateful enough to fall to the bloody decks to rest and care for their wounds. As the two ships finally stood clear of one another, a resounding cheer of victory rose from the courageous members of the Mirabelle. Their shirts ripped into hasty bandages, their bodies glistening with sweat and rusty with their own or their foes' blood, they were a bedraggled sight. Nevertheless, as they raised their arms or flung their caps into the air, flinging after the pirates a few last resounding epithets. Chris's heart swelled with emotion at the men he was proud to call his friends. As the gull, he swung up into the air away from the Mirabelle and began shaking the dust from the open pouch on the sea around the vulture. By the time the bag was empty, a mist impossible for any helmsman to see through had surrounded the battered ship from stem to stern and in despite of a freshening wind was rising steadily to the top of its one remaining mast. Chris returned to his own ship and in his own shape at last surveyed the dwindling island of mist that clung persistently around the vulture, blow through the windmite and turn and turn again though the helmsman might try to do. How long, Chris wondered, would the mist hold? Or would the vulture be doomed to drift at the mercy of the sea in its magic white shroud? He gave it a long look, a diminishing irregular white shape on the vast spread of the ocean then turned quickly and went to the decks below to help his wounded friends yet not before he had seen that the prow of the Mirabelle was turned triumphantly home. End of chapter 34, recording by Ian Gray.