Peter Darling

by Austin Chant

  "Why, my dear fellow," he said. "You don't look as if you were prepared for war after all."

  "Run," Ernest said, pulling Peter back toward the hideout. "Everyone, run!"

  The Lost Boys scattered, but Peter tore furiously out of Ernest's arms. Hook had taken something of his, and ruined their game, and he was going to pay for it. Over Tink's protests, he leapt into the air and drew his sword, preparing to dive down at Hook.

  But halfway through the leap, Peter fell like stone, crashing to the ground and rolling to a stop.

  Tink scrambled over his chest, shimmering in alarm. There was a sharp, throbbing pain where the knife had stuck in him. Peter looked down to see the corners of the wound turning yellow. A strange, tingling sensation spread through his limbs, and they felt heavy and weak when he tried to push himself up.

  "You may want to attend to that," Hook said from above him. "I hear it can be quickly fatal."

  "Fly!" Tink snapped, spreading her wings wide and showering him in fairy dust. It took extraordinary effort for Peter to leave the ground, all the same; he scrambled away from the pirates, who were jeering and laughing, and kicked off. He clawed his way into the air like he was swimming, and a gust of wind swept him up and carried him over the trees.

  The power of flight did not last him long. The pain in his chest was growing sharper and hotter by the moment, until he couldn't see through it. He half flew, half fell back to the earth, tumbling between the trees and sprawling on his back. He was sweating, burning up, and his stomach writhed. He turned over and vomited.

  "Peter!"

  His heart was horribly loud in his throat, and beating too fast. Cramps spread from his stomach into his chest, shoulders, and arms. He sucked in a deep breath, but his lungs were squeezing closed. He gasped frantically, every breath seeming shallower than the last.

  The urgency in Tink's voice cut through his panic. "Peter!"

  He looked up at her through tears of pain, barely able to move. "What do I do?"

  "I know that poison," Tink said. "The only antidote is the one he carries with him."

  Peter caught a glimpse of the cut through the gash in his shirt. It was festering green, turning black, and the sight made him throw up again. He was boiling, his throat and cheeks going dry and flushed.

  "Am I going to die?" he moaned.

  Tink stared at him with her glowing eyes, deep sorrow in them. She shook her head and came to him in a whisper of wings.

  "I can slow the poison's spread," she said, "but you must get the antidote within a day. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," Peter croaked, "but what are you—"

  She blazed suddenly like a candle, a bright point of light that hurt to look at. Silver thread spun around the wound and smoke poured from the tear in his skin, squeezed out as the flesh knitted together behind it. Tink flared so bright he had to look away, and then at once the light went out.

  Peter turned his head back and saw, for a moment, silver dust suspended in the shape of her silhouette before she blew apart and was gone.

  *~*~*

  He sat still for a long time, watching the fairy dust slide through his fingers, as fine as silt.

  He felt hollow. All around him, the world was still and dead, as if he were the last thing left alive. No matter how tightly he squeezed his palms together, the thin pool of dust gradually escaped him, blown away by the breeze or tracing its way between his fingers.

  "I do believe in fairies," he whispered, and it sounded so small and lonely that he said nothing else.

  All children lost their fairies when they grew up. Peter had always known that, but as with many things, he had seemed to be the exception. He had been charmed, lucky in everything, stronger and braver and quicker-witted than the other boys. The fairy on his shoulder had only emphasized his agelessness, his power over the world.

  He felt helpless now, cradling what remained of her in his hands, unable to get back one of the only things he had ever loved.

  Whatever spell Tink had cast on the poisoned wound had stopped him being sick; the weakness and nausea had vanished instantly. He could still feel a curious heat around the cut, but it seemed to be trapped in place, not spreading through his blood. He wondered how long it would take for the stitches to come unbound, for the wound to fester again. It had happened so fast the first time.

  He sat there frozen in dread of it, in fear of dying, and in worse fear that he would begin to cry and not be able to stop.

  Six

  The hideout had been burned to cinders. The clearing in which the great tree had stood was burnt to a shadow, the surrounding forest singed. There were no bodies; the Lost Boys were gone. Peter wasn't surprised. He'd have taken prisoners too, if he were Hook.

  As he stood in the ashes, his misery hardened into determination. If nothing else, he had to rescue them; it was too late for Tink and Slightly, but he wouldn’t let anyone else die.

  All he had was his dagger, but that would have to be enough. He still felt strong, but the wound on his chest had grown a deeper, angrier red that purpled in the center. The silver stitches seemed to be straining to contain it.

  The fae had heard from the sharks that churned the waters far offshore that Hook had plans for his captive Lost Boys. He was to lay a trail that led to Death's Head Cavern, where the rocks jutted up like teeth sharp enough to impale a man. A trap for Peter Pan, the fae reported. Hook intended to feed each and every Lost Boy to the great kraken that made its home in the depths of the cavern—and if Peter Pan wished to stop him, he was welcome to try.

  Apparently Hook had loudly announced these plans to the wind and sea, confident that they would be overheard and reach Peter's ears somehow.

  *~*~*

  Death's Head Cavern lurked beneath a cliff that extended out over the sea, its sunken eyes staring from the tangle of algae and grime that coated the rocks. Its mouth was wide and grinning, large enough for a small boat to sail inside, although it quickly became too cramped and narrow for the boat to continue. From there on in, one had to proceed on foot, walking across the slippery stone floor and avoiding the razor-sharp teeth that continued far down the cavern's throat. Passages split off in every direction, continuing for miles in mazelike twists and turns, so that even the most expert navigator quickly became lost.

  Peter had led the Lost Boys through these passages once, discovering a way they could go straight through to a pretty lake where bears and other beasts could be spied on. But there were other passages which had no exit, or which seemed to go on forever. In one of these was a pool that plunged deep below the earth, deeper than even Peter could swim, where a kraken lived. It could be called forth only by the taste of blood, but once summoned it was ravenous.

  Peter hid close to the cave entrance and waited until he heard the pirates singing in their rowboats. One dinghy carried the Lost Boys, all bound and gagged such that they could hardly move, and a surly-looking pirate with an eyepatch. The other boats contained much of the Jolly Roger's crew, including the one called Samuel and the captain himself. Hook was seated in the rear, wearing another ridiculous coat and an enormous hat covered in black ostrich feathers. He had the air of someone dressed for the opera, not a massacre.

  His hand was occupied with a map that he spread across his knees, his iron hook pinning the map open as he traced some route through the caves. He seemed aloof to the grunting and straining of the men pulling the oars. But at a word from Samuel, he lifted his head and smiled from beneath the brim of his hat.

  Peter watched as the pirates landed their boats where the channel became too thin to maneuver and the cave floor grew wide enough to walk upon. The Lost Boys had their feet bound together so that they could not even walk. Ernest looked as though he had been beaten; one of his eyes was swollen shut and there was blood in his hair. Peter's hackles rose at the sight. The Lost Boys were his. Hook had no right to touch them.

  Peter stole from behind the stalagmite that had hidden him and followed the pirates. The twisting
passage made it easy; all he had to do was stay one twist behind them.

  When he was sure they had gone the right way and would soon be at the kraken's lair, he cut away down a side passage. The passage led up and up until it opened onto a narrow ledge above the kraken's pool, which was presently black and smooth, barely visible in the soft glow of the bone-white walls. Peter dropped to the cave floor and crouched behind a crest of stone across from the entrance.

  A few minutes later, he saw yellow light dance across the walls as the crew emerged into the room with their captives. Hook alone seemed unaffected by the atmosphere of the cave; the other pirates were pale and nervous as they dragged the Lost Boys inside and shoved them to the floor.

  "Well, my friends," Hook said with the air of an actor beginning a monologue. "I suppose now we find out whether your convictions are justified. I hope for your sake he's flying here right now, ready to snatch you from the jaws of the beast." He bent beside Ernest and took from his belt a small, gleaming knife, which he held out to Ernest's cheek. "Or else your blood will summon it from the gates of hell itself to devour you."

  Even in the dark, Ernest's eyes shone with anger. Hook laughed and straightened up, turning away from the Lost Boys and addressing the pirates. "Be prepared. If Pan comes, he will be here any minute."

  Peter crept silently along, making his way toward the boys with his knife in hand.

  "Are you there, Pan?" Hook bellowed, loud enough for his words to glance off the walls and carry deep into the winding tunnels. "I'm going to blood them! The kraken will tear them apart!"

  Nibs lay on his side by a large stalagmite, his hands twisted behind his back and bound together with heavy rope. He gave a tiny jump when Peter touched his shoulder, but lay still as Peter sawed through the ropes, not moving even when they gave way and he was freed. Peter circled around to free Tootles.

  "This is your last chance, Pan!" Hook roared. "You have ten seconds to show yourself before the feast begins! Ten! Nine! Eight!"

  The pirates were not watching the Lost Boys; they were facing the entrance or staring into the water, transfixed with fear and apprehension. Peter reached Ernest and cut through his bonds in one slice.

  "Seven! Six! Five! Your boys are counting on you, Pan!"

  Ernest turned over and reached for the knife, jerking his head toward Curly, who lay on his other side. Peter gave him the knife.

  "Four! Three! Two…"

  Something heavy landed on Peter's back and knocked him to the floor beneath its weight. He struggled, but froze in shock when he realized it was Nibs holding him down. Curly and Tootles each grabbed one of his arms and twisted them until they felt like they would come out of their sockets.

  Ernest put the knife beneath his chin.

  Hook turned around and smiled.

  "One," he said. "I'm afraid the kraken will have to go hungry."

  *~*~*

  They bound Peter hand and foot as they had the other boys. Peter could not speak as they tied him up. He felt hollow, like someone had scraped his heart and all the other meat from the inside of his ribs.

  "Now, Pan," Hook said cajolingly. "You can hardly blame a bunch of clever young men for wanting to live."

  Peter stared at the boys, who stood free of their bonds, awkwardly interspersed with the pirates and staring back at him as if they could not bear to look away. The only one who would not meet his eyes was Ernest.

  Hook grabbed Peter by the shirt and dragged him to the pool's edge. He inspected the poisoned wound on Peter's chest and laughed at the sight of the silver threads. "What hard work the fairies wasted on saving you," he said. "Perhaps you'll poison the kraken as it eats you and I'll have killed two birds with one stone."

  He cut a thin slice across Peter's palm—Peter heard Nibs gasp—and extended his blade out across the pool, letting Peter's blood sprinkle into the water where it spread like smoke.

  Everyone held their breath for as long as they could, but there was no answer from the deep. Hook frowned slightly, then brought the blade to Peter's throat. "Very well," he purred. His breath was warm on Peter's ear. "It appears the beast wants a greater offering."

  The knife brushed Peter's skin and parted it so easily that a thin line of blood ran down his neck without his even feeling pain. Then again, Peter wasn't sure he could feel pain anymore.

  He was staring straight ahead, waiting for the deep cut that would end his life, when Ernest suddenly spoke: "Wait."

  "Have you something to say to Pan before he dies?" Hook asked.

  "To you," Ernest said. "You don't need to kill him. He'll join your crew with the rest of us."

  Hook chuckled, and Peter felt the vibration on his ear. "Will he?"

  "Yes," Ernest said. He took a step forward still clutching Peter's knife. "He will."

  Hook was silent, as if considering. Then he gave a little sigh and said, "Ernest, my boy, you don't need him. You know that. You're all better off without him. He's the one who got you into this mess, brawling and killing when the rest of you were happy to live your lives in peace."

  "That's true," Ernest said, and Peter's stomach sank into his toes.

  "Think how much happier you'd be with him gone," Hook said.

  Ernest swallowed, and his eyes flickered. "The Lost Boys wouldn't be here without him," he said. "And if they weren't here… I'd be alone—"

  "What does that matter now? They'd be dead without you. He abandoned them. Left them to fend for themselves while he ran away from Neverland." Hook's voice was gentle, reasonable. "Isn't that right, Peter?"

  Peter nodded mutely, and felt the knife clip against his throat again. Blood rolled down his neck and Ernest gasped. "Be careful."

  "You don't need him anymore," Hook said. "All you lack is his audacity. Let him go, and lead the Lost Boys yourself."

  Ernest's shoulders were uneasy, his breath a little short. "I am leading them," he said. "And I want you to let him go. Now."

  Hook groaned. "And here I thought we could avoid this kind of noble grandstanding. Very well." He glanced aside at Samuel and said, "Bind him. Feed them both to the Beast."

  Two pirates stepped toward Ernest, but Ernest lunged at Hook, who must have then realized how close he was to the edge of the pool. He hastily dropped Peter on the ground and swung out of Ernest's path to avoid being knocked in.

  The remaining Lost Boys snapped into action and charged after Ernest, slamming into the pirates and knocking them aside. They had no weapons, but they threw themselves upon the pirates anyway, wrestling with them for their knives and swords and guns.

  Ernest landed on top of Peter, digging his knife beneath the ropes around his wrists and shearing through them with strong, sure motions. "I'm sorry, Peter," he said. "I'm sorry—"

  Hook's sword plunged into his leg and Ernest fell away with a cry.

  Peter broke from his daze at the sight of blood spilling from Ernest's thigh. He screamed and hurtled himself into Hook's feet, knocking him on his back and diving on top of him. Somehow Ernest's knife had found its way into Peter's hand and he drove it into Hook's shoulder, feeling him jerk and shout in pain. Peter ripped the blade free and swung it down for his throat, but someone seized him around the back and tore him off.

  It was Samuel. As Peter rolled to his feet and Hook scrambled away, Samuel pulled his sword from its scabbard and attempted to spit Peter on the blade. Peter batted it aside and ran his knife through Samuel's chest in one sharp thrust.

  Peter heard Hook's gasp as Samuel fell, lifeless, into the pool. His body struck the surface with a muted splash and sank instantly, dark water washing over the lip of the pool. His lantern, broken on the floor, left them in sickly firelight.

  Hook was staring at the place where Samuel had stood with an expression of bewilderment. Peter could have stuck him with the point of his sword, he was sure, before Hook would've thought to react. But he was watching the procession of emotions that marched across Hook's face, from disappointment to sorrow to anger and back. All aro
und them the boys and the pirates were shouting at each other, battling over stolen weapons, but their two captains were silent and still.

  Then Hook grunted and stood straight, and Peter saw him quickly packing away each feeling like a host stuffing clutter into the closets before guests could arrive. When at last he turned to Peter, there was nothing in his face but contempt.

  "So," Hook said. "You've broken one of my toys."

  He drew his sword.

  "Better to die than be a man called a toy," Peter said callously. The anger had gone out of him when it had plunged a blade through Samuel's chest; it had been replaced by something uglier, something that was almost grief, a grim inevitable feeling that the only way forward was to kill someone else. He knew that Ernest lay behind him, bleeding on the floor, and that he would do whatever it took to save him.

  "I could say the same of that boy I killed," Hook sneered. "What was he to you? No more than a pawn."

  "No. That was different."

  "Was it?" Hook took a slinking step, like a tiger staring down its opponent. Peter could see his arm trembling under the weight of his sword, weakened by pain and injury. Peter's own wounds were barely hurting him; necessity and fairy dust had sharpened his body back into a tool he could use. Hook kept talking, probably trying to distract him. "Tell me, Pan, how was it different?"

  "The Lost Boys aren't mine," Peter said. "And you killed Slightly while I was asleep. I killed your man in front of you."

  "Good form," Hook said. There was a mean smile on his lips. "How about I return the favor and kill you in front of them?"

  Peter lunged at him first, and Hook danced back, evading the blade instead of deflecting it with his own. When Peter swung again, he directed his knife so that Hook had to parry it. He could see the shock of the impact travel up Hook's arm and into his shoulder, see Hook's teeth snap together to stifle a growl of pain. After several more blows, Hook's sword arm was trembling and weaving, though it did not fall. Peter leapt into the air and hurled his weight behind his knife, and meant to bring their blades together with such force as to make Hook drop his.