Peter Darling

by Austin Chant

  Hook froze, breathing hard, and for a moment they stared at each other.

  Peter was drenched in sweat, his arms tingling with exhaustion. "I win," he panted, grinning. He slowly lowered his sword to aim at Hook's heart. One thrust, and it would be over. Peter wet his lips with his tongue. "This is it. You're mine."

  "Am I?" Hook asked, as Peter drew back his sword. "Or are you mine?"

  The blow came from behind. A shattering thump across the back of Peter's skull made the world burst white, then black.

  *~*~*

  Someone was playing the piano, a soft, melancholy tune. Peter's head throbbed, a singular point of pain resonating through his skull, and it took effort to pry open his eyes.

  When he did, he stared into the dark of a blindfold. Peter twisted at the bindings on his wrists, grunting when he found them too tight to budge. He had been trussed like a pig.

  "Ah," Hook chuckled, "he wakes."

  The piano stopped, and footsteps approached. A cold iron hook slid between the blindfold and Peter's forehead, pulling the cloth up. The first thing Peter saw was Hook, leaning over him with a lit cigar between his fingers. He smiled at Peter, beatific, his eyes like blue glass.

  Then he stepped back, and Peter took in what had to be Hook's cabin. It was all red and gold, velvet and silk. Rich tapestries covered the walls; a grand piano stood beneath stained-glass windows overlooking the sea. Racks of jeweled swords, knives, and hooks covered an entire wall. Treasure was heaped in overflowing chests all around the room, glazed in the light of a chandelier that swung lazily above Hook's desk.

  It was another world, one which did not belong to Peter at all.

  Even the chair he had been placed in was beautiful. It was made of lustrous burgundy wood, and the arms were carved into the tails of mermaids. No, mermen. Their bodies arched into the curves of the chair, arms stretched helplessly above their heads, staring up at Peter with handsome faces and vacant eyes.

  "Comfortable?" Hook asked.

  "What are you doing with me?" Peter rasped.

  "I seem to have lured you into a trap," Hook said. "I rather suspected you'd be too single-minded to notice Samuel waiting for you to turn your back."

  "You're a coward."

  "All's fair in war." Hook tickled the underside of Peter's chin with his claw. Peter's breath caught in his throat. "Don't worry, Pan. I've no intention of simply killing you—or at least no intention of killing you simply." He smiled. "I don't suppose you remember our history with crocodiles?"

  "I cut off your hand and fed it to one."

  Hook chuckled. "Indeed. Some years ago I stumbled upon the place where the beasts congregate. It's a part of the coast known as the breeding place for all kinds of monsters, and I thought it would be a wonderful place to have my worst enemies devoured. At the time, I didn't have anyone worth killing with such flourish. But now… I have you." There was something almost fond in his face. "You'll appreciate it, won't you?"

  "Do your worst," Peter said. He had never meant anything more. The feeling of the ropes binding him tight was almost better than the feeling of dueling Hook. It was a fight he didn't know how to win, a danger he couldn't escape. That was good. He felt like a string that had been pulled taut after lying slack a long time.

  "I'll kill you when you run out of tricks," he said.

  Hook looked amused. "You've changed, Pan," he said. "Yet you're still quite the dramatist."

  "Look who's talking."

  "I admit it," Hook said. "But you love a good fight, don't you?"

  Peter's stomach fluttered. "Yes."

  "We have that in common, you and I," Hook said. "You know, I'm glad you've come back—" Someone thumped on the cabin door, and his head jerked up. "What?"

  A pirate with sleek brown hair and thick arms pushed open the door. "We're approaching the Bitter Coast, Captain," he said.

  "Perfect." Hook sprung out of his chair. "Thank you, Samuel." He tugged the blindfold back down over Peter's eyes. Grasping Peter by the ropes that lashed his arms to his sides, he lifted him from the chair and dragged him out on deck.

  Wherever they had sailed, the air was colder here. Peter could hear waves crashing on the Jolly Roger's hull, and the cheerful conversation of at least a dozen pirates who must have gathered to observe Peter's fate.

  His ankles were bound together so he hung from Hook's grip. "I'd have you walk the plank," Hook said, his mouth close to Peter's ear, "but you'd struggle to do even that."

  "I'll be back."

  Hook laughed. "God, I hope so."

  He tossed Peter onto the deck. "Throw him overboard," he said, and several strong hands lifted him to a dizzying height before pitching him over the side.

  The wind howled past Peter as he plunged, unable to fly with his arms and legs bound. He yelped with pain and cold as he struck the water and went under. Saltwater rushed into his mouth.

  The current pulled his blindfold askew, uncovering one eye. He bobbed back to the surface, twisting and straining to keep his head above the water. Through blurry vision, he saw the studded backs of crocodiles sliding toward him through the water.

  His hands were already numb in the icy water. There was no way he could get them free. Above, the pirates were cheering and clapping, and as panic washed over him, Peter began to thrash. He barely had time to scream as something closed around his foot and dragged him under the water.

  His blindfold came off completely as the sea closed over his head, and he opened his eyes to see a pair of scaly hands wrapped around his ankle. A mermaid's iridescent eyes stared up at him from the water below. She smiled and pulled him deeper.

  A crocodile lunged at Peter through the water, jaws open, and another mermaid whipped between them in a flash of green scales, striking the beast a staggering blow with her tail. A rush of other merfolk swam past him, straight for the remaining crocodiles. The water erupted in a flurry of bubbles and blood.

  Four

  The beach stank of seaweed and brine, and so did he. Peter gagged up a lungful of saltwater, then fell on his face in the sand and lay in the beating sun while the merfolk chittered and compared wounds. One of them nudged at his toes with a rubbery cheek.

  Slowly, Peter pushed himself up and wiped sand from his cheeks. He turned to wave at the merfolk, who were lounging in the shallows, flipping their tails from side to side and grinning at him. They didn't speak any language he understood, but they waved back, tossing their glistening manes.

  "There you are," Tink said.

  She came floating down from a tree branch on her gossamer wings. She landed on Peter's shoulder, and then picked up her feet with some distaste, inspecting the wet sand that had come off on them.

  "Did you send the mermaids?" Peter asked.

  "You're welcome," she said. "You're lucky I know Hook."

  Peter grinned at her. "Thanks." Now that he had survived the crocodiles, he didn't know why he'd ever doubted he would.

  Tink flicked sand at him. "There's seaweed in your hair."

  Peter pulled himself up with a wince. "Let's get back to the Lost Boys," he said. "Hook did his worst. Now it's my turn."

  *~*~*

  The Lost Boys remembered how to play war, even if they didn't have quite the same boyish enthusiasm for it that they had ten years ago. Peter marshaled them as soon as he returned to the hideout, directing them to sharpen their weapons and begin scouting the forest. They made excellent spies, having the practice and personal hygiene to blend in with the natural environment.

  Hook wasted no time. Early the next morning, when Peter was finishing breakfast, Nibs came rushing back to the hideout. "Pirates!" he cried. "Three of them."

  Peter jumped to his feet. "What are they doing?"

  "They were digging up treasure," Nibs said excitedly. He was getting into the spirit of war. "They were awfully close to our territory."

  "Peter," Ernest said. He was frowning. "Even Hook can be reasoned with. I'm sure if you sent him an olive branch, he'd accept it.
"

  "Why would I want to send him an olive branch?" Peter asked, annoyed. Ernest was good fun, in his way, but Peter wasn't about to let him stop the most exciting thing that had happened since his arrival in Neverland. "He's a pirate. If he's going to invade our territory, he'll pay the price. Come on!"

  *~*~*

  Though it had been a long time and Peter was taller now, stronger and bigger, he still remembered how to soften his footsteps when stalking prey.

  He could hear the pirates singing. There were three voices, all gruff and all merry, and their owners were stamping through the forest with no regard for the noise they were making. As a young boy, Peter hadn't known what rum smelled like; now he did, and he knew the pirates reeked of it. As he crept closer, he could almost taste the salt in their beards and the tang of old blood on their swords. Flattening himself against the mossy trunk of a tree, he peered around and saw them: two pirates hauling a large chest that dripped chains of gold, a third acting as a sort of guide who was trying to juggle a sword, a map, a shovel, and the treasures which kept overflowing from the chest and tumbling to the forest floor.

  Peter flitted after the pirates as they hummed and trundled through the trees. He had flown overhead and sighted the boat they were headed toward, tethered at the beach where the air sang of gulls.

  They were not to reach it.

  The guide fell behind a step as he fumbled with his map, trying to turn it over and trace a path to the sea. The other pirates meandered on. "I can feel the sea wind," one of them called. "There's no doubt it's this way."

  "And I say we make sure," the guide said, rather petulantly. He was an anxious-looking man. When the others continued on without him, he cursed to himself and dropped the shovel, tucking the sword beneath his arm as he unfurled the map.

  Peter flew forward, stopping just behind the pirate. He made no sound, but the displacement of air ruffled the hair on the back of the guide's neck, and the man twisted around with a gasp.

  A single sweep of Peter's knife cut his throat. The blood that burst forth was extraordinary, a spray of red that shot up like a fountain. The pirate died with nothing more than a gurgle and a thump as he hit the ground.

  His companions looked around and saw Peter there, red to the waist, and both began to scream. They probably would have liked to think they were bellowing war cries, Peter thought.

  He leapt over the guide's corpse toward them, and the two pirates scrambled back. They threw down the treasure chest, which fell on its back, sloughing gold. When they turned to run, the Lost Boys emerged from the trees, blocking them in.

  The end was swift.

  *~*~*

  "My God," Tootles said. "I think that was Billy." He rolled the guide's body over, and several Lost Boys looked stricken.

  "He brought us messages from Hook," Ernest said. "He wasn't bad."

  "He was a pirate," Peter said, exasperated.

  "That's right," Nibs said. The other boys glanced at him sharply, but he shrugged. "It's been a long time since we had a good fight."

  Peter had the Lost Boys haul all three corpses to the beach, where they found the dinghy the ill-fated pirates had been attempting to reach.

  "Let's return Hook's pirates to him," Peter said, and they piled the bodies in the boat, pushing it off the beach and back out to sea. Several of the boys watched it drift away.

  In the treasure chest, they found an enormous quantity of golden plunder and cut jewels, along with an assortment of fine weapons. Peter took a long knife with a glittering hilt and let the boys divide everything else between them. They feasted around the fire that night, everyone in a reckless, noisy mood. Only Ernest refused to celebrate. He got up before the meal was done and trudged away between the trees.

  Peter went after him. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.

  "I don't want to do this," Ernest said, his shoulders tight. "I hate fighting."

  "Why are you such a coward?"

  It didn't have quite the impact Peter was hoping for; he had been halfway hoping to start a fight, wanting Ernest to get mad at him and stop being so thoughtful and concerned. But Ernest frowned and lowered his head, and Peter felt the wind go out of his own sails.

  "I made the truce with Hook because I didn't want anyone to get hurt," Ernest said. "You've ruined it."

  "You can't stop people from being hurt."

  Ernest's face twisted. "That's no excuse for not trying. You don't even want to try. I don't know why I thought anything different. You liked it when Hook was trying to hurt you."

  "What?"

  Ernest bit the words out like he had been chewing on them for days. "I keep thinking about it. Up on the mountain, when he attacked you—it was like you were enjoying it."

  "Of course I was," Peter said, put off by his accusing tone. "I love fighting. What's wrong with that? All the other boys do too."

  "Not like that," Ernest said.

  "You're sore because you're the only one who's not acting like a man."

  "What's being a man got to do with it?" Ernest snapped. "Maybe there's just something wrong with you."

  Peter had to laugh. He had never felt less wrong in his life. "You can leave if you want," he said. "I won't make you fight."

  Ernest's fists clenched at his sides. "I won't abandon the Lost Boys," he said coldly. "I'm not like you."

  *~*~*

  Ernest took the floor that night instead of sharing the bed, ignoring Peter when he spoke.

  Peter didn't know what to do. Ernest's disapproval was draining the Lost Boys' enthusiasm, and worse, it was ruining Peter's fun. There seemed to be no dragging Ernest along with the game, but Peter liked him too much to banish him.

  When Ernest got up to dress the next morning, still in a foul temper, Peter threw a pillow at him. "I'll fight Hook alone if you want," he said.

  Ernest glared at him. "I don't want you to fight alone," he said.

  "You don't want to fight with me, either," Peter retorted. "And someone's got to take care of Hook. But I don't need help if you don't want to."

  Ernest folded his arms and walked over to the bed where Peter sat, his mouth pressed into an anxious line. "I wish we could do something else instead."

  "There's nothing else I want to do," Peter said. "I want to fight." He hit Ernest with the other pillow for emphasis.

  Ernest let out a slow breath. Then he tackled Peter back onto the bed, taking advantage of Peter's surprise and wrestling him into a hold. "We can fight," he said in a tone somewhere between frustration and reluctant affection.

  "That's more like it," Peter said, elbowing him in the gut. Ernest's grip loosened, which let Peter thrash his way free, and then they were off, grappling back and forth across the bed. Ernest was as strong as Peter and larger, but less ruthless, so neither of them had any particular advantage.

  Before long they were both sweaty, battered, and sporting extremely messy hair, but the fight was nowhere near ending when the screaming started.

  It was not a playful scream. It was a bloodcurdling, awful, anguished sound, and it came from outside the hideout.

  Ernest tore free of Peter. "What's that?"

  Peter was already on his feet and sprinting up the stairs. The Lost Boys were clustered around a tree across the clearing, and Peter shoved between them. When he saw what their bodies had concealed, he stopped dead.

  Slightly had always worn an expression of vague superiority; now his face was somber, his eyes gone as dull as marble, his glasses hanging off his nose. A sword with a whorled hilt and gleaming blade was stuck through his chest and driven deep into the tree behind him, holding his body upright. There was a note pinned to the front of his shirt, one corner soaked in the blood that had spilled and dried all down his chest. Tink was perched on his cheek, silently inspecting him.

  Peter walked forward wordlessly and tore the note from Slightly's shirt. It was written in a beautiful curling hand and deep red ink. It said:

  To the Lost Boys:

  And so our
truce is ended. I would have been happy to spare you in deference to our long and profitable peace, but your allegiance to Peter Pan means that we are now at war. Since you were so kind as to send me evidence of your intentions, I have endeavored to do the same.

  I look forward to our next meeting.

  Yours sincerely,

  Jas. Hook.

  "Hook." Ernest's voice was thick with loathing and grief.

  Peter stared at the note. He knew he shouldn't have felt betrayed, but for a moment he couldn't move, wondering how Hook could have done this to him.

  "If only you hadn't killed those pirates, Peter," Nibs whispered. "Hook hasn't bothered us in such a long time. He's just been out at sea."

  Peter whirled toward him, furious and hurt, so suddenly that Nibs flinched away. "What did you say?" The Lost Boys stared at him, and whatever they saw, they were muted by it.

  "If only you hadn't killed those pirates," Ernest repeated.

  Peter rounded on him, and the look of quiet resentment on Ernest's face was a stab at his heart. "What's wrong with you?" Peter demanded. "It's not my fault. It's Hook. You never should've stopped fighting him."

  "We could never win without you," Nibs said tremulously. "And Hook didn't care about us, anyway. He only wanted you. He left us alone."

  "Look at Slightly!" Peter cried. "Is that what leaving you alone looks like?"

  "Peter," Tink said. "Stop."

  The other boys shrank from him, except for Ernest. "It wasn't bad before," Ernest said. "It wasn't bad until you came back. And now Slightly's dead." Peter saw stubborn tears hanging in his eyes. "Who cares about your stupid war?"

  "Now, boys," Hook said. "Don't fight."

  Peter spun toward his voice, and a knife struck him in the chest.

  Five

  Tink made a shrill sound of alarm, and Ernest flung himself in front of Peter, drawing his sword.

  "I'm fine," Peter snarled. He felt no pain; the dagger was as slim as a dart and hadn't gone deep. He jerked it out by the hilt as the pirates emerged from the trees, surrounding them. Hook, smiling, still had a hand raised from having thrown the knife.