by Terry Brooks
Rufio laughed. "Yeah, mon-show me your fast ball. C'mon, dustbrain. You pouchy, old, sag-bottomed, puke-pot!"
"Bangerang, Rufio! Bangerang!" shouted the Lost Boys. Even Peter's group joined in.
Peter had had enough. He pointed at Rufio and shook his finger. "You are an extremely poor role model for these children."
The Lost Boys whistled and used their hands to mimic the crashing of airplanes.
"All right!" snapped Peter, not wanting to back off. "You… you are a third-rate person!"
"Hemorrhoidal sucknavel!" Rufio sneered. He looked cocky and self-assured sitting there, his eyes laughing.
"Fourth-rate person!" charged Peter.
More whistles and crashes sounded, and the entire table began to jeer.
Rufio leaned forward. "Boil-dripping, beef-fart sniffing bubblebutt!"
"Bangerang, Rufio!" screamed the Lost Boys in glee.
"You are a scatologically fixated, psychotic, prepubes-cent child!" shouted Peter.
Boos sounded from every quarter accompanied by less polite indications of disdain. More whistles. More crashes. Peter knew he was losing this contest as well.
"Fungus factory!" taunted Rufio.
"Bangerang, Rufio! Bangerang!"
"Slug-slimed sack of rat guts and cat vomit!"
The cheers were deafening. Lost Boys were leaping up and down in their seats, hands clapping.
"Cheesy, scab-picked, pimple-scoured, finger bandage!"
Fake moans and retching sounds rose from the assemblage, the Lost Boys now become connoisseurs of revulsion, loving every dreadful image Rufio's words conjured in their minds. Rufio beamed.
"Week-old, double maggot burger with everything on it and flies on the side!"
Peter surged to his feet, his hands braced on the edge of the table, his face flushed dark red. He had lost his composure completely. Everyone scrambled to get out of the way. Even Rufio jerked back uncertainly.
Peter's teeth were clenched. "Arbitrageur!" he howled.
Everyone stared. Glances were hurriedly exchanged.
"What's that?" demanded Rufio finally.
Peter recognized an opening when he saw it. He smiled, disdaining to answer. "Dentist!" he hissed.
Lost Boys everywhere gasped in recognition of that one, recoiling as if struck. Rufio flinched, then quickly straightened.
"Nose hairs infested with lice and ticks!" he tried.
"Substitute chemistry teacher!" Peter retaliated.
"Slug-eating worm!"
Too Small leaped up. "Repeat! Repeat! Rufio repeated. He loses points!"
All the Lost Boys began to shout at once. "C'mon, Rufio!" cried his supporters. "Hit 'im back! Don't let 'im get to you!"
Rufio made a last run. "Lizard lips! In yo' face, camel-cake…"
"French tutor!" Peter cut him off. "Assistant Dean of Students! Parole officer! Accountant! Theatrical agent of animal acts! Prison-"
"Lying, crying, spying, prying, ultrapig!" screamed Rufio.
Peter laughed. "Easy for you to say-you lewd, rude, crude bag of prechewed food!"
That brought the Lost Boys to their feet with a howl. "Bangerang, Peter!" they cried out. "Peter's Bangerang!"
Now it was Rufio's turn to be stunned. The smug look had disappeared from his face. There was genuine shock mirrored there-and hurt.
"You… you man!" he howled. "You stupid, stupid man!"
Peter had him. He took a deep breath. "You tight-brained, three-button, gold-card, alligator-belted crock of shishkababble-toothed, liberal left-wing corporate lawyer, eating his boogers… like a Paramecium suffering from Pan envy!"
There was dead silence. Peter's gaze stayed locked on Rufio.
"What's a par-a-meeze-e-um?" asked Too Small softly.
"A one-celled organism with no brain," Peter answered triumphantly.
Shouts of glee rose from the Lost Boys. Mugs thumped down on the tabletop, feet stamped the ground, and everyone went absolutely bonkers.
"Banning! Banning! Banning! Bangerang Banning!" they all roared, including Rufio's followers.
Peter grinned, caught up in the moment. Without thinking, he reached down to his plate and scooped up a handful of nothing.
"While I'm at it, Rufio," he hissed, drawing the other's downcast eye, "something else just occurred to me. Go suck a dead dog's nose!"
And he hurled the handful of nothing into Rufio's face. Cheers and shouts rose anew from among the Lost Boys. The nothing struck, and green and orange globs of vegetables dripped suddenly from Rufio's dark face. Peter stared at him momentarily, then glanced down at his empty hand. How about that? His smile was reborn in that instant, alive with the wonder of discovering something he had thought impossible.
Across the table, Rufio reached down to a nearby plate, came up with a fistful of nothing, and hurled it back at Peter. It struck him squarely in the face as well-hot steamy dressing, thick rich gravy, and candied yams. It ran down into his mouth, and he licked it away, his smile even broader. It was real! It tasted wonderful!
When he looked down again, the entire table was laden with food, all of the empty platters piled high. Stunned, delighted, an unimagined sense of joy taking hold, Peter seated himself and began to eat ravenously.
Too Small's round face was beaming as he clapped his hands. "You're doing it! You're doing it!"
Peter looked up, genuinely puzzled. "Doing what?"
"Having fun with uz, Peder," Pockets answered softly.
All the Lost Boys crowded to him with a cheer-Ace, No Nap, Don't Ask, Thud Butt, Latchboy, Too Small, and Pockets in the vanguard, hands raised to exchange high-fives. Cries of "Pan the Man" lifted. Peter ate, and never had food tasted so good. Across from him, a Lost Boy smiled and showed him a mouthful of food. Peter grinned and showed him a mouthful back.
Tink flew from the table into the limbs of the Nevertree and down again, crying to anyone who would listen, "I knew he could, I knew he could!"
A Lost Boy belched as he finished eating. Another mimicked him. And another. Peter reared back and gave a gigantic belch that sent them all into gales of laughter, a few so overcome with merriment that they tumbled from their seats to the ground. Peter laughed harder than any of them. He had forgotten who he was or why he was there. He had forgotten his aches and pains. He was too busy having fun to worry about any of it. He grabbed a turkey leg and pretended to make off with it. Lost Boys grappled playfully to stop him. Peter sprang up as if to hurdle the table, turkey leg held high.
As he did, a sullen Rufio, nursing his anger in silence until now, finally lost control. Seeing this "Pretend Pan" playing and cavorting as if he were one of them was just too much to stomach. With a howl of rage, he snatched up two coconuts and threw them with all his strength at Peter's head.
What followed was to be a blur in Peter's mind ever after. Someone yelled in warning, Peter whirled, dropped the turkey leg, and caught a sword thrown by Ace all in one motion. He spun-gracefully, easily, as if he had been doing such things all his life. The sword became a natural extension of his hand, its blade whipping through the air, cleaving both coconuts apart in a single stroke so that the halves fell neatly at his feet.
A gasp came from the throats of the Lost Boys followed by silence. Everyone, Rufio included, stared at Peter in undisguised awe. Peter stood for an instant without moving, sword in hand, balanced on the balls of his feet, uncertain even then what it was he had done or how he had done it. Then he let the sword drop, and he slowly sat down again to finish his meal.
Tinkerbell was hovering in the air above them all, her face alive with joy. "What times," she whispered to herself. "What great games."
There were tears in her eyes.
Magic Hour
The sunset colored the western skies scarlet as day faded and night approached, and the waters of Hook's pirate harbor were turned to blood. At anchor, the Jolly Roger rocked in slow cadence to the lapping of the waves against her dark hull. The waterfront was quiet now, the day's
work finished, the pirates gone to the alehouses and taverns and less reputable dens for an evening's fun. The ramshackle hulls of the cannibalized ships formed stark skeletons in the gloom, bones jutting out, faces blanched and peeling paint.
Jack, wearing a tricorne hat that was a smaller version of Captain Hook's, stared down from atop his perch on the muzzle end of Long Tom, a knight astride his charger, the master of all he surveyed. The redoubtable captain rode the breech, hands in place on the barrel as Smee steadied him against a possible fall. Like children on a seesaw, boy and man faced each other watching the moons of Neverland grow large in the sky.
Jack waved his hand impulsively, and his smile was dazzling.
What a wonderful, exciting day it had been!
School in Hook's cabin hadn't lasted much longer than the discovery of the chest of baseball cards. From there, Hook and Smee steered Jack out on deck and down the gangway to the docks, where lines of pirates were practicing with cutlasses. Back and forth the pirates surged, the blades of their weapons glistening in the sunlight. With barely a pause Hook led his bosun and Jack right through the center of it all, seemingly oblivious to any danger from the sharp edges. Down through the scything iron he strolled, as bold as you please, Jack and Smee following with heads ducked and eyes wide.
Exiting safely at the far end of the deadly gamut, Hook paused, excused himself to Jack, snatched a cutlass from Smee, parted the final pair of fighters, and engaged one in combat.
"Parry and thrust. Parry and thrust." He forced the hapless pirate back. "Lean right, and…"
Ugh! He ran the pirate through, swift as thought.
"Odds bodkins, did you see that, Smee?" Hook sniffed as the pirate collapsed at his feet. "He bent his knee!"
Smee shook his finger at the fellow. "You have to concentrate!" he had admonished.
"Tense your abductor muscles and the movement follows!" Hook added.
Jack thought he saw the pirate nod dutifully just before he died. At least Smee seemed to find some reason for giving him a reassuring pat on the back.
"To breakfast.'" Hook announced.
Voiceless, stunned, yet titillated as well, Jack followed Hook and Smee through the gates heralding good form pier, down the wharf front, and into the town. All about, the pirates swarmed, colorful and bold in their jaunty outfits, calling out and laughing gaily. It reminded the boy of a carnival, with some new attraction, some wonderful event, waiting around every corner. There were jugglers, tattooed men, fire breathers, and exotic women of a sort he had never seen before. A stuffed-animal vendor caught their attention, and Smee grabbed up a toothy crocodile and pretended to chase Hook with it until the captain gave him a look that would have melted ice.
At last they turned into a door with a sign that read:
TAVERNE
BREAKFAST NOW BEING SERVED
BOTTOMLESS CUP OF COLA
Inside, there were pirates lounging in chairs and on stools, some smoking, some cleaning knives, a few reading tattered copies of newspapers labeled Pirate Today and The Daily Pirate. Tables were occupied by pirates eating from plates heaped with cream puffs, pies, cakes, and sweets of all sorts accompanied by tall mugs of cola. A table was reserved for Hook, and he and Jack shared a monstrous banana split to which Smee kept adding spoonfuls of whipped cream. Jack advised Hook beforehand, rather embarrassed to have to do so, that he was not allowed to have sweets before breakfast. But the captain simply laughed and announced that in his town sweets were breakfast.
From there they went on to the square and a mock horse race with Hook riding Tickles, Jack riding Smee, and a gaggle of other pirates riding each other, all charging around the crocodile tower, yelling wildly. Though Hook urged Tickles on rather insistently with his claw, Jack emerged the winner. Jack thought there was a chance that the captain might have let him win, but he was having too much fun to care.
Then there was the imaginary boat ride in the raging thunderstorm, with Hook, Smee, and Jack sitting tight in a lifeboat rocked wildly by a corps of pirates who hoisted them aloft while other pirates and pirate town denizens clashed swords to make lightning and thunder and shook sheets and towels to make wind. Buckets of water sloshed perilously close, as if the sea were really down there, threatening to capsize the boat and send them all to Davy Jones. How real it seemed!
Finally there was the pirate drill with Jack in command and Hook looking on, beaming his approval, as the boy marched an increasingly irritated gang of pirates about the decks of the Jolly Roger until they were on the verge of mutiny.
Boy, oh, boy-what a day!
But now it was coming to a close. The memories danced through his mind, and Jack could only grin and wonder what lay ahead. Tomorrow would bring new adventures, Hook had promised. Just wait, little man. Just wait.
His reverie was interrupted as a small, anxious voice called his name.
"Jack! Jack!"
He stared down at the wharf, where the barred window of a basement prison framed a little girl's dirt-streaked face.
"What do you think you're doing? Why are you playing games with him? Look at me, Jack! You think you're funny, but you're not! You wouldn't be acting this way if Mommy and Daddy were here!"
Jack was silent. Hook slid down from Long Tom and walked to Jack's end, his smile little more than a twitch of his lips.
He reached up and put an arm about the boy. "Do you know who she is, Jack?" he asked softly.
Jack shrugged. "Sure."
"It's me, Jack!" Maggie shouted insistently.
"She's so loud," whispered Hook, sounding sad. He paused. "What's her name again?"
Jack frowned. "Ah…" His mind was suddenly blank.
Hook's smile broadened appreciably. Things were working out better than he had expected.
"I'm Maggie, your sister, you idiot!" she screamed. "When I get out of here, I'm gonna break every model you own! I'm going to mess up your room so bad you won't recognize it!" She sobbed. "It's me! Don't you remember anything? What about Mommy and Daddy? What about them? Jack, it's me!"
Maggie watched in despair as Hook lifted Jack off Long Tom and with his arm about her brother's shoulders led him from view. Jack barely remembered her. He had forgotten her name completely.
She sagged against the bars, her lower lip quivering. She really, really, really wanted Mommy and Daddy!
"Mommy," she said softly.
A tiny voice behind her whispered, "What's a mommy?"
She turned to find one of the littlest captive Lost Boys staring up at her intently. The others were huddled in the dark behind him, all of them dirty and ragged and unkempt, their eyes wide and their faces upturned. From dawn until dusk they had been kept busy by the pirates counting Hook's treasure, chained to chests of it, made to count in cadence the same baubles over and over, sorting, polishing, and then putting them back again. Pirates with whips had urged them on. Pirates with buckets had brought them dreadful food to eat and dirty water to drink. Maggie had hated every minute of it. It almost made her wish she had stayed in Hook's school.
The slave kids were all looking at her expectantly. "Doesn't anyone remember his mother?'' she asked incredulously.
They glanced at each other and shook their heads no.
Maggie climbed down from the box she had been standing on to face them. "What's wrong with everyone here?" she demanded.
"What's a mommy?" the first kid repeated tonelessly.
Maggie frowned thoughtfully. Her eyes glanced down at her favorite nightdress, violet hearts on a cream field. Jack had been wearing a pirate hat. Stupid old Jack.
"Mommies," she repeated. She walked to where another little boy was resting on the floor, whimpering from a bad dream. She lifted his head, fluffed his pillow, and lay him back down again. The whimpering stopped.
"Mommies make sure you always sleep on the cool side of your pillow," she said quietly. She sat down, facing the anxious faces. One by one they crowded close. She thought suddenly of Granny Wendy and her stories o
f Peter Pan. "They're the ones," she intoned gravely, "who put all your thoughts in order while you sleep so that when you wake up, all the good ones are right on top where you can find them."
Blank stares greeted her pronouncement. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" Heads shook. She thought some more. "Mommies are great," she declared, taking another approach. "They feed you, kiss you, give you baths, and drive you to piano lessons. They play with you when you're lonely. They take care of you when you're sick. They paint, draw, color, hug, kiss, and make everything better when you hurt. And they tuck you into your bed every night."
More blank looks. Except-there! One little boy seemed on the verge of remembering. And there! Another was scratching his head.
Maggie leaned forward. "They give you Band-Aids when you cut yourself, they bake you cookies on rainy afternoons, and they sing you songs, and-"
"Wait!" a Lost Boy exclaimed. "I remember! They're not songs-they're… lullabies!"
"Right!" exclaimed Maggie.
"Sing us one!" called out the others. "Sing us a lullaby!"
Maggie grinned. "All right."
She smoothed out her wrinkled nightgown, tossed back her strawberry-blond hair, and softly began to sing.
Hunched over the railing of the aft deck, facing out toward the harbor mouth where the mix of colors from Neverland's moons formed wondrous patterns on the ocean's surface, Hook, Smee, and Jack lifted their heads as one at the sound of Maggie's voice. For a long time no one spoke, caught up in the enchantment of her singing, lost in their private thoughts.
Then Jack whispered, so low he could barely be heard, "My… my mother sings that song."
Instantly Hook was alert, a scowl chasing the momentary rapture from his angular features. His hook lifted and his eyes fixed on Smee. Do something! he mouthed in fury.
Smee straightened and clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder. "C'mon, me lad!" he bellowed as if calling hogs. "Let's have another go at Long Tom!"
He steered Jack to the cannon, mounted him in place, raced to the other end, climbed aboard, and began whooping and hollering as if he had never had so much fun in his entire life.
