Peter woke to the whistling of a kettle. He was lying in a grassy hammock that was rocking gently in the breeze. He was dry and clean. Someone had removed the golden eyes from his sockets and put a fresh bandage around his head. Likewise, his tattered clothes had been replaced with new ones-cut just like his old rags, but made from sturdy cloth with fine stitching. Peter swung his leg off the hammock and carefully reached for the floor. He got up and felt his way around the room, taking in the surroundings. He was standing on an open deck that seemed to be supported by two giant tree branches. The kettle that had woken him was boiling on a castiron stove, which groaned gently in the corner. Peter couldn't tell how long he'd slept; the air smelled like night, yet his skin felt a great radiance prickling against it.
"That's the moon," Professor Cake explained, shuffling down a wooden staircase. "She hangs a bit lower in these parts of the world."
Peter turned his face to the heavens. He had always been able to feel moonlight, but never this strongly. He could almost taste it shining down through the canopy of leaves. The old man hushed the kettle and set to making tea. "You certainly were tired. Slept clear through the day."
Peter felt the stiffness in his joints that comes from a long, restorative slumber-a rare sensation for him. "I didn't mean to be a bother," he said.
The old man clucked, waving off the apology. "I can't say I blame you, child. With the skies so close, the sun can become quite overwhelming. I much prefer nights myself-the world takes on greater dimensions when obscured by shadow." Peter had never seen a shadow, but thought he understood the professor's meaning; he had more than once reflected on the secret pleasure of being awake while the town lay sleeping.
The professor led Peter to a dusty wingback chair and handed him a mug of mulled tea. The boy sat and took in what details he could about his host. Professor Cake was a hunched old man with a voice as knotted as his knuckles. His shuffling steps were punctuated by the tap of his cane, which was made from ostrich spine. His musty suit was muffled by several layers of long coats, and the boy could hear a small pocket watch ticking somewhere inside the folds of his vest. The man's scent reminded Peter of the eyes, and he wondered what had become of them.
"They're on the floor, beside your feet," the professor said, settling into a chair. "I had Mr. Pound fish the box out from the lake this morning. The hinges squeak a bit now, but nothing to bleat about."
Peter reached down to find the box waiting for him. He marveled at how this strange man seemed able to hear his very thoughts, just like the Haberdasher.
"I should hope so," the professor said with a chuckle. "I am, after all, the one who taught him how. Mr. Pound is my apprentice. It was his job to deliver the eyes to you. My apologies for the whole traveling-salesman charade, but I had to make certain you were the boy I had in mind."
"Like some kind of test?" Peter said.
"The word 'test' makes me think of school." The professor shuddered slightly. "But suffice to say, you passed with flying colors. I should note that we put some very thorny locks on that carriage, ones that have baffled scholars for centuries. I am pleased to see they were no match for your talents."
Peter was confused. "You wanted me to steal the eyes?"
"Of course, my child! I made them just for you… and let me say it was no small effort."
Just for him. Peter took the box into his lap and opened it. He ran his fingers over the contents.
"Three sets of eyes: gold, onyx, and emerald." There was a hint of pride in the old man's voice. "Hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of removing the gold pair from your sockets while you were asleep-couldn't run the risk of you disappearing on us, could we?"
Peter still didn't understand. "Professor, I don't think the eyes work. When I put the gold ones in, I couldn't see a thing." He touched the bandage around his head, imagining what it would be like to never need it again.
"They worked fine, thank you very much. I daresay they're the reason you're sitting here right now." He read confusion on the boy's face. "Peter, these are no ordinary eyes. These are Fantastic Eyes."
The words sent a tremor along Peter's spine. "What does that mean?" he said.
"It means they do fantastic things, of course! Those gold ones, for example, instantly transported you to the last place they beheld: my island. That was my rather clever way of getting you here."
"What if I put them back in again?"
The professor considered this, stroking his beard. "Well, the last place you had them out was in this very room, so I suppose they'd take you here. I should warn you, though. This particular pair can get you in a lot of trouble if you're not careful-so don't go putting them in unless you really mean it."
Peter was having trouble keeping up. Every answer the old man gave only made him want to ask another question. "So, you're telling me it was the eyes that made me appear in the water?"
"The Troublesome Lake," the professor corrected. "I couldn't think of a softer place for you to land. I assumed you could swim, seeing as how you grew up in a port town. Evidently I was mistaken. Sorry about that-I hadn't expected the Troublesome Lake to be quite so… troublesome." Professor Cake, like most brilliant men, couldn't resist a good play on words from time to time.
Peter's next question-one of dozens-was interrupted by a shout from outside. "Gentlemen, your supper is getting cold!" It was Mr. Pound, leaning from a rope-bridge, wearing a smoldered apron. "I should add that if you don't join us immediately, Sir Tode has threatened to eat your portions!"
"I said no such thing," the knight protested, licking what smelled like pancake batter from his mustache.
Peter jumped to his feet. "Sir Tode!" All this talk about Fantastic Eyes had made him completely forget about his fellow traveler. "I'm surprised you didn't get marauded without me," he said, smiling.
"Very funny! If I recall, you were the one afraid of being left alone out there. It would have been cruel of me to abandon a helpless blind boy."
"The same helpless blind boy who saved you from drowning?"
Sir Tode gave a low growl. "Perhaps I should have stuffed you into that sack?"
"You'd have to catch me first!" Peter was not expecting his challenge to be taken up literally, but no sooner had he spoken than the knight pounced from the rope-bridge and knocked him to the floor. Mulled tea splashed all over the tree house, and within seconds the two of them were wrestling across the deck, trading insults, jabs, and gibes.
Mr. Pound joined Professor Cake, who was watching the fight with keen interest. "You probably hoped they might be getting on a bit better, eh, sir?" he said.
The old man chuckled. "Heavens no, Mr. Pound. This is far preferable. I don't think I could have planned it better myself."
Being wise, Professor Cake knew that any relationship not beginning with a punch or two would most assuredly fade over time: it is a well-known fact that brawling begets friendship. Already Peter and Sir Tode were planting seeds of mutual respect that might one day blossom into something far greater-a friendship to rival the stuff of legends.
The evenings on that island were happy ones for Peter, perhaps the first in his life. He was clothed, fed, and cared for in a way he had never before known. He kept the box of Fantastic Eyes with him at all times. The boy was tempted more than once to try them on, but he resisted for fear that they might spirit him away from this blissful place.
Most nights, Mr. Pound tended to dinner and the garden while the professor whittled the hours away in his workshop, a rickety turret stacked to the eaves with books and empty glass bottles. Meanwhile, Peter and Sir Tode were given free rein to explore every last inch of the grounds. The pair spent countless hours catching insects and digging in the mushroom orchard-all the while becoming more and more dependent on each other. Each time Peter encountered something that smelled, sounded, or tasted strange, he would ask Sir Tode to describe it.
"It appears to be a large painting draped over some poles like a tent," the knight remarked upon finding one such artifact just off the path.
"A painting of what?" Peter asked.
"Stars and planets, mostly. With little lines and numerals going back and forth across the whole thing. Hello, I think there's something moving underneath…" The knight pushed his snout between the cobalt folds.
"Ah! I see you've found my Gazing Mat!" Professor Cake looked up from the nearby stable, where he was feeding tomato soup to his zebras. "A wonderful trinket. It helps me keep an eye on things. Be careful poking around there-you might never get back out."
Sir Tode scoffed. "Nonsense. It's just a harmless-Ahhh!" He suddenly leapt away from the mat, tripping backward and tumbling into a shallow stream. "I-I thought I saw… something," he muttered, shaking himself dry.
The professor approached and offered him a towel. "I don't doubt it. There are all sorts of 'somethings' in that canvas. And if I look close enough," he said, turning to Peter, "I can even see the port town where you grew up. The shops you burgled. The basement you slept in."
It took a moment for Peter to understand the meaning of the man's words. "You've been watching me?" he said.
"You and many others," the professor said, moving past the stables. "Walk with me, child. It is time we speak of why I brought you here."
Professor Cake led Peter down a path that followed the shoreline. Gentle waves lapped against the boy's bare feet, mixing salt into the cinnamon air. "These waters, they don't smell like the ocean back home," he said.
The old man smiled to himself, clearly impressed by the observation. "That's because it isn't the ocean back home." He steered Peter in the direction of a small inlet. "Your port waters are up ahead there, just a few yards past the pear brambles." Peter concentrated, and he could indeed detect a change in the breeze-something about it really did smell familiar. "The fact is, at this isle meet all the waters of the world, many of them from seas far beyond the reach of your ships," the professor explained.
Peter wondered if these distant seas led to the magical lands that the Haberdasher had described in his patter.
"The world is filled with uncharted waters," the professor said, perceiving the question. "And the farther out you sail, the deeper and more enchanted they become."
"Enchanted waters? Is that where Sir Tode comes from?" Peter asked. He could hear the knight off in the meadow, battling a swarm of fireflies. ("Give up now, you infernal sprites!")
Professor Cake listened with him and chuckled. "I understand why you'd think that. But no, Sir Tode is from your world… only not as it stands today. He was born back when your shores were riddled with possibilities-dragons, hags, whatnot. That was before reason took hold." His voice became sadder. "Now Sir Tode is all that remains. A relic of a bygone age."
The old man turned from the shore and led Peter inland. They walked along a stream that-like countless others-flowed toward the center of the island. "No matter its birthplace, every sea in the world eventually dies here: at the Troublesome Lake."
The two of them were now standing at the grassy edge of the basin. Over the rush of water Peter could hear the gentle tink-tinking of innumerable bottles. The sound filled the air with a soft, almost mournful song. "Professor?" he said after a moment. "Why do you call it the Troublesome Lake?"
"Because every one of those bottles is filled with troubles. When people need rescue-be it from starvation or madness or heartbreak-they often seal a note in a bottle and cast it out to sea in the hope that someone will find it and help them."
"Does it work?"
"Rarely, I'm afraid. Usually the bottles float for years, arriving here long after they can do any good." The professor took a long butterfly net propped against a nearby tree and reached down into the basin. He fished out a bottle from the water and read the message inside:
The old man sighed, removing his spectacles. "Poor fellow. He's probably a pile of dust by now." He observed a moment of silence for the thirsty man.
"That must be hard," Peter said. "Hearing all those troubles and not being able to help."
"It is. But every person, both great and small, is asked to do difficult things-and this is the difficult thing that I must do." He dabbed his wizened eyes with a handkerchief and replaced his spectacles. "Yet occasionally I come across a message where there's still time. When that happens, I do my best to help. That's why I called you here, Peter Nimble."
The boy feared that Professor Cake had him confused with someone else. "But I didn't write a note," he said. "I don't even know how to write."
The old man reached into his vest pocket and removed a small green bottle. Inside was a tiny scrap of paper. "A while back, I came across a very special message, written by someone in great need."
"Can you help whoever wrote it?" Peter said.
The professor leaned down and pressed the bottle into Peter's hand. "I just did."
