all out of breath from climbing, despite his heavy coat and sword. “That’s where we come from. Sometimes holes poke through from the Neverworld to your world and people cross over. There are books that predict where these world-holes will appear. Interworld almanacs – like the one you just saw me use. But these pirates have managed to get their hands on something even more useful, I’m afraid.”
“An orrery,” said the doctor.
“What’s a… what you said?” asked Peter.
“Mostly it’s pricklesome hard to pronounce,” replied the captain. “Oh-rair-ree. See what I mean?”
“An orrery is usually a model of how the planets move around the sun,” explained the doctor, ignoring Captain Rattus. “But there were some special sorcerous orreries made by the famous magician Leonardo Ratinci several hundred years ago. A Ratinci’s orrery can show you where all the holes between the worlds are and when they will be.”
“Those detestable pirates stole a Ratinci orrery from a rich merchant,” explained the captain. “We’ve been following them for days, trying to get it back. If we don’t, they’ll pop up all over your world and do their evil business, stealing DVDs and suchlike.”
“I see,” said Peter, beginning to understand the situation. Mostly he wanted to get his own DVDs back, but clearly a Ratinci orrery shouldn’t be left in the hands of pirates. Thinking of his own DVDs made him realise he couldn’t possibly deliver them before two o’clock or get back before his mother finished shopping.
“Oh,” he said, stopping. “I’ve just realised that I have to go back. My mum’ll miss me.”
“No, no,” cried the doctor. “Keep on! The world-hole is closing above us!”
Chapter Six
Peter looked up, and sure enough the sides of the hole were flowing inwards like mud into a bottle. Quickly, he started down again, almost slipping on the next few rungs.
“In any case,” puffed the doctor below him, “you won’t be missed. Time is different in the Neverworld. In fact, if you stay here too long, you might end up going back before you left. Or if you choose the wrong hole between the Neverworld and Topside – which is what we call where you come from – you might end up going back years before you were even born.”
Peter didn’t like the sound of that at all. He was already regretting coming on this adventure. He was tired of this rope ladder that seemed to descend for a kilometre at least through the gloomy, dismal darkness. Besides, there was no knowing what was at the other end of this world-hole. Maybe the doctor and the captain were lying and they were taking him away to be a slave, and he’d never see the sun again, or his mum, or anything.
“Don’t worry,” said the doctor, who seemed to know what he was feeling. “We’ll send you back safely. And we’re nearly there. Look down.”
Peter looked and saw a bright light shining up past the two rats below him on the ladder. It looked like sunshine, though that didn’t seem possible.
But it was sunshine. Peter blinked as he came out and the sun’s rays hit him in the face. When he stopped blinking, he saw that he was hanging on a rope ladder that was invisibly attached to the air. Above there was a blue sky with a few lazy white clouds bumbling along. Below him, there was a clump of palm trees and a golden beach.
Looking around, Peter saw that he was on an island. Anchored not far from shore, there was a ship with white sails and lots of red-capped sailors climbing over its masts and rigging. On the other side of the island, another ship with all its putrid yellow sails set was sailing away as fast as it could.
“There go the villains!” shouted the captain, jumping to the ground. “Quick! To the Tumblewheel!”
A few minutes later, Peter was on board His Majesty’s Royal Rat Ship Tumblewheel. He was out of breath from running and soaked from wading into the surf to get picked up by one of the ship’s small boats. There were rat sailors running all around him, climbing up the rigging, raising sails, tying and untying ropes, hauling on ropes and turning the windlass that raised the anchor. Captain Rattus was already on the poop deck, shouting orders as the ship slowly started to turn out to sea, the wind filling its sails and all the timbers and ropes groaning as if the Tumblewheel was reluctant to move.
“Mister Purser!” shouted the captain, pointing at Peter. “We’ve a gentleman volunteer aboard that needs a proper rig-out. See to it, if you please.”
A small, older-looking rat appeared at Peter’s elbow and led him away below deck. It was surprisingly cramped and Peter had to duck his head as they clambered down steps and through doorways and hatches. It smelled too, of salt and wet rats.
“Here we go, sir,” said the purser finally, as they reached a small room full of chests and bags. “We’ll have you kitted out in a moment. Hoi, Patrick! Get Mister…”
“Peter,” said Peter.
“Get Mister Peter a cutlass and a brace of pistols from Hodges the Armourer,” ordered the purser. Then he took a deep breath and started to hand Peter clothing, reciting, “Here’s a blue coat of best superfine with one inch brass buttons on a nautical line; a linen shirt somewhat patched with a detachable collar that’s practically a match; a pair of double-seated britches made of wool that sadly itches; two pairs of stockings, one silk, one not; a pair of sea boots with holes where they’ve been shot; a broad leather belt with steel buckle showing faint remains of gilt; and a broad-brimmed hat of salt-stained felt.”
A few minutes later, Peter had changed into his new clothes and was realising the truth of the purser’s words. The double-seated breeches did itch. Still, he couldn’t help but stick his chest out and feel proud in his seagoing gear. Then Able Searat Patrick came back with a cutlass and a brace of pistols, which Peter was relieved to see meant only two.
“Captain says I’m to show you how to shoot,” said Patrick. “Because we’ll be boarding those rotten rascal pirates within the hour. And I’ll teach you a few cutlass tricks as well.”
Chapter Seven
Peter followed Patrick out of the hold from the purser’s office to the gun deck, weaving between the rats who were waiting beside the great brass cannons. Past the last cannon, they climbed up a ladder and through a hatch.
Out in the open air, Patrick showed Peter how to fire his pistols and hold his cutlass. Peter shot at a floating barrel and learned how to reload; then he put the pistols away to hack at a spar with the cutlass and learn the basics of attack and defence.
“We’re… we’re not going to get killed, are we?” he asked Patrick nervously. Half an hour of practice with the pistols and cutlass had shown him how dangerous they could be.
“Of course not!” said Patrick, surprise in his bright black eyes. “This is the Neverworld! You only get awfully wounded here and suffer terrible pain till you get better or grow back a paw or tail. No one dies.”
“Terrible pain?” asked Peter faintly. “I don’t like the sound of that!”
“Patrick always exaggerates,” said a small, balding rat who was sharpening his cutlass nearby. “It ain’t that bad. Why, I’ve had both my ears shot off and I hardly noticed when it happened. The doc gave me a cordial and they grew back in two weeks, though I’ve had a little trouble with my fur.”
“Oh,”