by Austin Chant
As evening came on, they reached another rough terrace covered in thick forest. Ernest stopped to consult his map. "We should be close." He frowned. "The mermaids said the commune would be over a spiny ridge in a white tree. At least I think so—they mimed it. I haven't seen any white trees. What if we went the wrong way?"
"Wait for nightfall," Tink said. "Keep your eyes open."
"What if the mermaids were wrong? If we're on a different ridge…" Ernest looked close to wringing his hands. Peter clapped him on the shoulder, and felt Ernest startle and then relax under his touch. "I'm glad you're here," Ernest said. "We'll figure something out. But if we don't get that flower…"
"Wait," Tink said.
"I hate waiting," Peter said. He flew aloft and circled over the forest, looking for anything out of place, but was met with only a forbidding canopy of dark pines. The sun was going down, and soon it was hard to distinguish anything. If there were a white tree somewhere in the forest, it was impossible to see.
He was about to take a closer look when he heard Ernest give a shout of alarm.
Peter soared back to the clearing, only to see Ernest struggling in the arms of a pirate who had stuffed a gag into his mouth. Surrounding him was a ring of pirates wielding swords and flaming torches, and in the center of them stood Captain Hook.
"Now, where is our dear friend Peter Pan?" Hook was saying. "Heavens, you can't answer me, can you? No matter. I'm sure he'll turn up."
"Hide in the bushes," Tink said softly. "You can catch him off guard."
Peter barely heard her; seeing Hook had sent a bolt of excitement through him, and he felt electric. "Let him go!" he shouted.
Hook threw his head back to stare up at Peter, the torchlight gleaming off his golden earrings and wide grin. "Right on cue," he said. "Come down from there, Pan. We've taken your man hostage." He aimed his pistol at Ernest, who stopped struggling.
Peter came down on his toes across the clearing from Hook. "Let him go," he repeated loudly. "It's me you want."
"Which is exactly why I demand your surrender for his release," Hook said. "Throw down your weapon and I'll free him. If not, he dies."
"He won't let Ernest go," Tink warned. "He'll keep him as a guarantee in case you try to escape."
"Don't listen to her," Hook said.
Ernest said something that might have been Peter's name into his gag. Peter gave him what he hoped was a reassuring look. "How do I know you'll let him go?" he called.
Hook spread his hands innocently. "You have my word as a gentleman."
"You're no gentleman."
"So says the prince of runaways, scrambling around in the woods with no shoes on."
Peter took a step forward, liking the way Hook's eyes followed him. "Duel me," he said. "The only way I'll surrender is if you beat me in a fair fight."
Hook cocked his pistol. "And if I shoot him?"
Peter bared his teeth. "Then I'll really kill you." He took another step forward, and the rest of the pirates edged backward. "If you can beat me, I'll be your prisoner. You have my word. But if you hurt him, I'll fly away, and you'll never catch me."
Hook slowly, thoughtfully caressed the trigger of his pistol. Then he lowered the gun, holstered it, and drew his sword.
"A duel it is," he said. "To the death, or the surrender, whichever comes first. You may wish to step aside, Miss Bell," he added, in the direction of Peter's shoulder. "I would hate to have to skewer both of you."
"No thank you," Tinker Bell said, and left Peter's shoulder for a tree nearby.
"Keep the other boy restrained," Hook snapped at his pirates. "Kill him if Pan tries to run away."
"I'm no coward," Peter said. He smirked as Hook slunk forward. "On second thought, are you sure you're well enough to fight me? I'd hate to think I had an advantage because I wounded you already."
"I'm more than well enough to deal with you," Hook said with a grin. "Come on, brat. Have at thee."
They lunged for each other almost as one. Peter had to twist aside from a spearing thrust of Hook's blade, spinning to the outside of Hook's sword arm. Hook swung to follow him, offering no opening for Peter to exploit, pushing him back with a flurry of little jabs.
Hook fought gracefully, with practiced form, more fencer than buccaneer. His coat swirled around him with each movement. It was a different one than he'd been wearing that morning, as though he had dressed up for the occasion of chasing Peter across the island—and Peter was distracted by it almost long enough for Hook to run him through. He ducked away at the last moment, and Hook's sword sheared through the side of his shirt instead of his belly.
Peter was beginning to realize a flaw in his plan to duel Hook into submission. Now that Hook was on guard, it was impossible to get close to him with a short blade. No matter how he advanced, Hook repelled him, keeping him at a safe distance.
Hook, too, was aware of it. Despite the sheen of sweat on his face, he looked triumphant as Peter retreated from his sword. "Surrender is still an option, Pan," he said, "should you wish to keep your life and your dignity."
"Never."
Hook came for him again, and Peter met the blow recklessly, locking their blades together.
That was when he discovered how strong Hook was. Hook simply threw his weight behind his sword and Peter went flying back, slamming into the trunk of a tree. Hook instantly pressed his advantage. Their blades crossed again, and Hook pinned Peter to the tree, the edge of his sword nearly pressed against Peter's throat. Peter could only just hold his sword away with both hands wrapped around the grip of his dagger, and his arms shook with the effort. If he tried to fly free, Hook could easily disembowel him.
Hook was smiling. He braced his stance, increasing the pressure on their joined blades, and Peter grunted and craned his head back as Hook's sword slipped an inch closer to his neck.
He found himself staring up into Hook's face. Peter had never seen him so close, and the picture wasn't foul, but fascinating; his eyes were forget-me-not blue, his hair a tangle of black ringlets, his mustache curled like the crest of a wave. His breath washed over Peter's cheek, and he smelled warm, like spice and salt.
A strange, hot thrill spread through Peter, from his chest to his toes.
"Do you give up?" Hook purred.
"Never."
Hook's smile deepened. "You've forgotten something," he said, and his free hand—no, his iron claw—pressed beneath Peter's chin. It was almost a gentle touch, except that the point of his claw was so sharp, the lightest scrape across his skin raised the hair on the back of Peter's neck. "Surrender now, Pan. Or die."
"To die," Peter began, "would be an awfully big—"
"Don't start that again," Hook said. "Surely you could have come up with something new to say after ten years."
Peter laughed, and somehow Hook was laughing with him.
Behind Hook, there was a flash in the night sky. At first Peter thought the flare was a star detaching itself from the heavens; then it came sailing down toward the clearing, and he knew what it was. Hook saw his expression and twisted around. "What in Hell's name is that?" His claw drifted away from Peter's throat.
Peter lifted his feet to press flat against the tree trunk and kicked off, hurling his whole body behind his dagger and knocking Hook off balance. Hook went to one knee but managed to deflect Peter's blade, and for a moment they circled each other in the clearing. Then a shower of sparks descended around them, flooding the forest with milky light.
The pirates cried out in alarm as the fae surrounded them. Two fairies hovered between Peter and Hook. One was Tinker Bell; Peter hadn't even realized she had gone. The other was the fairy queen.
Peter recognized her at once, even though she had aged greatly over the years. She was like a dragonfly, her carapace an iridescent sunset gold, her wings stained glass. When Peter had last seen her, she had been young and green, but had since changed colors like leaves preparing for winter. He could feel her power as a heat shimmer in the air.
"Your Majesty," Peter said. He swept into a deep bow, remembering his manners from the fairy court. Opposite him, Hook awkwardly mimicked the gesture.
"You two again," the queen said. She had many large, crystalline red eyes and they fixed on Peter. "It's been a long time, Pan. I thought we were quite rid of you."
"I thought the same," Hook said, but stopped smiling when the queen's attention snapped toward him.
"And you, Hook," she said. "You hardly ever make trouble anymore. How is it that I find you preparing to disturb a fairy commune?"
"Madame," Hook protested, "I had no such intentions—"
"Quiet." The queen's wings snapped at the air, and the force of her magic washed over Peter, making his face throb.
Ernest, who had wrestled his way free of the stunned pirates, suddenly lunged to Peter's side and seized hold of his arm. Peter jumped, having forgotten about him. "Peter was helping me," he said nervously. "We came to get the magic flower to heal Curly. Hook attacked us. Peter was trying to save me."
"That's hardly fair," Hook said. "Pan and I have been having a friendly disagreement all day; I was merely bringing him my latest rebuttal—"
"Hook," the queen said. Her voice was like church bells, deep and ponderous. "Begone."
Hook looked like he might argue, but he deflated when the queen's red stare turned on him. He stepped back, beckoning to his crew. "Your neck has been saved this time, Pan," he called. "But you won't be so lucky next time."
Peter waved to him. Hook sneered back as he retreated, and was gone into the night.
"Come," the queen said briskly. "The commune has already begun."
She led Peter and Ernest into the forest.
*~*~*
"Are you all right?" Ernest asked. "Did Hook hurt you?"
"Of course not," Peter said. He wished the fae hadn't interrupted them.
The fairy queen and her retinue were only a fraction of the fae attending the commune. As they walked through the woods, streams of fairies flew overhead and pearly light danced on the trees. The fae were converging on a single point in the distance.
Ernest had not let go of Peter's hand. The fairies seemed to make him anxious. "Do you think they'll let us leave?" he asked. "Now that we've seen where the commune is?"
"Yes," Peter said distractedly. "Shh." He was trying to eavesdrop on Tink and the fairy queen, who were flying along ahead. They were talking about him.
"I concede that he is your responsibility," the queen said. "But I do not understand why you had to bring him back here. He made his choice long ago."
"It was the wrong choice," Tink said. "I told you it was."
"He lived with it for ten years. Why not a lifetime?"
"Ten years isn't so long for a human," Tink said. "He wished for me, so I went."
The queen made a dismissive sound.
Peter frowned. Before he could think much more about it, they emerged into a grotto so bright it was like standing on the moon. The ground was carpeted in flowers of all kinds, from bluebells to vigorous lilies; they rioted together, crowding and crawling over each other like weeds. In the center was a wide, squat tree with green leaves and white bark, its branches teeming with fairies.
Ernest stopped apprehensively at the treeline. Peter stopped too. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Ernest said. "Do you think they bite?"
"Of course they do," Peter said. "But they won't bite you. You're with me."
Tink flew back to join them. "And me," she said. "More importantly."
Peter grimaced at her and pulled Ernest into the meadow. It was impossible not to tread on the flowers; there were a million of them underfoot.
Already the commune tree was turning black as the fairies burrowed inside it, filling it with a hundred glowing, twisting channels. Peter had seen a fairy commune before, long ago, when he and the Lost Boys had first explored Neverland. The fae would eat their sacrificial tree from the inside out, each taking enough life from it to sustain them for a year of growing things. By night's end, the tree would be hollow and dry as bone.
A fairy landed on Peter's chest as they walked closer. It had a shiny black body and wings that turned green and gold as they caught the light. Its antennae shivered in the air. "Pan," it said, startled. "Welcome back."
The other fairies began to take notice of the human presence in their midst and came to investigate in an ominous, glittering swarm. Ernest gave a muffled whimper and tried to back away, but Peter kept a firm grip on him; the fae wouldn't trust someone who fled. They were wrapped in a mirage of wings, chimes, and trembling light, the touch of many small hands on their skin as the fairies settled upon them.
The fae of Neverland were quite a bit less human than the fairies in Peter's childhood storybooks: some had many legs and some none at all, some had eyes on stalks and some had clusters of iridescent eyes which all blinked at once, while still others had spines or fur or stingers or too many teeth. All of them had wings, but some were silken and some were filmy and white, as if they had been cut from butcher's paper. They chittered in the bell-like fairy language with accents of brass, silver, and crystal.
"So you've come for a flower," the queen said, landing on the back of Peter's hand. Even amid the other fae, her words carried, and her glow was unmistakable. "Which flower might that be?"
Peter and Ernest glanced around helplessly at the many varieties of flowers around their feet. "I don't know," Ernest said. "There wasn't any description."
"They want the flower that only grows on the night of the commune," Tink said smoothly. "The one with the power to cure any illness."
"Ah." The queen gave a sparkle of laughter as if she and Tinker Bell were sharing a joke. "Of course. Go and stand beneath the tree, Ernest. A bud will open when the moon is overhead. Pick it, and be careful not to spill the pollen. Not you, Pan," she added, as he started toward the tree. "Stay. I would have a word. Bell, see that Ernest finds his flower."
Tink flitted over to Ernest's shoulder. Ernest threw an uncertain look at Peter as he went, leaving Peter alone with the fairies.
"Why have you come back, boy?" the queen asked.
Peter blinked. He had the feeling she had asked him a riddle he didn't understand. "What's Neverland without me?"
"Many things to many people. What are you doing here?"
"I—had to come back and deal with the pirates."
The queen tilted her jeweled head. "They have as much right to be here as you, and have sailed these seas for many years. Why have you suddenly come to eradicate them?"
"They're villains," Peter said, vaguely annoyed. He could tell the queen wanted something else from him, but he didn't know what. "I'd have come back sooner if I'd realized everyone would let Hook take over."
"One might argue that they didn't mind being ruled by a pirate."
"Of course they minded," Peter snapped. "They just couldn't do anything about it, because I'm the only one who can stop him—"
"Enough," the queen interrupted. "I would speak plainly with you, Pan, but as you're beyond reason…" Her wings fanned louder, and the shiver of her magic washed over him—this time cold, a piercing cold that dug its nails into his head. "It's time you came back to yourself."
Her voice struck a note that made his teeth ache. "Remember."
*~*~*
The night was clear and dazzling, and Peter had never been so afraid to breathe. He stopped every few minutes to listen, silent, to be sure that the house remained asleep.
He kept the drapes open, working by moonlight on the window seat to avoid lighting a lamp. Despite shaking hands, he was as quick with his needle as he had always been, shortening the hem of his stolen trousers so the cuffs wouldn't roll over his feet. As a child, Peter had thought nothing of running away in his nightgown; it was only a little lacier than the ones his brothers wore. Now, practically speaking, he needed a suit of armor to cover the way his body had changed. He had taken an old shirt and a pair of large trousers from his fath
er's wardrobe, both baggy enough to conceal any shape.
In the moonlight, he slipped into his boy clothes. With his ensemble donned, he looked like a young man with an improbable quantity of thick brown hair. That was the last step: stretching open his sewing scissors and sawing off his hair. It took longer than he expected, several feet of unruly silk pouring to the floor around his shoes. When he was finished, his hair was hacked to just above his ears, and following its natural inclination to curl.
Peter stared at himself in the mirror, registering the terror in his eyes almost before he realized he was afraid. This was exactly what he wanted, and it was unforgivable.
If he stayed, he'd be in an asylum by the next evening. There was only one way out.
The latch gave easily, like it had been waiting, and Peter's window came open in a gust of cold air. Outside, the world looked ghostly. It was a fairytale night—thin clouds swirled like seafoam across a black ocean, stars like a fistful of glitter, all so close he could almost touch them. London seemed small, hunched down to the earth, while the sky hung low over the city and stretched out forever.
Peter stepped up on the window seat. It felt unsteady beneath his feet, until he realized it was him shaking. Doubt caught him off balance and he crouched, wrapping his arms around his knees.
At the back of his mind, he wondered if he really wanted to die, if he'd convinced himself he could fly to make it easier. Would his mother wake to find his body on the lawn, hair cut off, wearing his father's clothes? Would they take pictures of him for the papers?
Was that any worse than being found in his bedroom with all the evidence strewn around him, too much of a coward to make the final leap?
Peter pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing in until he saw spots. As he did, he heard bells.
They came from outside, faint and eclectic like a wind chime. Peter stuck his head out the window. There was a ball of silver light drifting down from above the trees in the yard. It was too large to be a firefly—the light was the size of his fist, and as it approached, he could see that the glow emanated from a body within.
