Peter Darling

by Austin Chant

  Pan, meanwhile, looked somewhat reassured. "You think they'll be gone someday?"

  "I'm sure of it." Hook caught his eye. "And as for your other fears… I may be rather dastardly, but there are things even I wouldn't stoop to use against you. Honor among thieves, you know."

  Pan bit his lip, flickers of that boyish vulnerability in his face. Hook didn't know how to comfort him except to move on. "Speaking of honor," he said, "you now owe me for saving your life—so if you've rested enough, I suggest you get back to work on finding us a way out of here."

  That did the trick. Pan frowned and climbed to his feet. If he was still weak, he did his best to avoid showing it as he fumbled his way out of Hook's coat.

  "We need water," Hook added. "And something to eat, soon. I scouted ahead while you were asleep—this passage caves in as well. Have you any ideas?"

  Pan shook his head. "You made it sound like we were gods," he said slowly. "Why don't we just make a way out?"

  "Come, now," Hook said. "That's hardly the spirit of the thing."

  *~*~*

  They soon faced another bitter reality: Hook was running out of matches. The hardwood burned for a long time, but he didn't think two sticks would give them more than another few hours, and then they would be traveling blind.

  "It doesn't seem fair," he said amiably as they walked. "I've lived a good life. I've killed and plundered so many of my enemies, amassed so much power, and when it comes down to it, I'm going to die alone in a cave with you."

  "You make it sound like you're the one getting the short end of the bargain," Pan snipped back. He was almost back to his usual self, though something in his manner was subdued. His edges had softened.

  For his part, Hook found he couldn't muster his usual vinegar either, though that was mostly to do with his increasing exhaustion. His shoulder, where Pan had stabbed him, was developing a new kind of pain, a stinging, needle-like sensation that was far harder to ignore than its previous dull ache. He had gotten along so far by hoping that it wouldn't trouble him until he was outside. But now the wound was hot; he could feel it radiating a sickly warmth against the inside of his shirt.

  That was probably a bad sign.

  "Would you mind giving me some of your energy?" he asked, when it became obvious that Pan was slowing down to allow him to keep up. "Hell's teeth, I'm hungry."

  "There must be something to eat down here," Pan said. "We might even be able to fish if we find an opening to the sea."

  "Oh, what a wonderful idea. I'm sure the kraken would appreciate another chance at devouring us."

  "I'll go fishing, then," Pan said. "You can hide around the corner if you like."

  Hook sniffed. "If you can procure us a fish, I'll see about cooking it."

  "Who knew you were such a coward?"

  "It's not fear, it's pragmatism. One of us can fly; the other is wounded."

  Pan glanced at him, but let the topic go surprisingly easily. Hook waited for more jibes, but the next thing out of Pan's mouth was, "Is your shoulder hurting you?"

  It was said in a tone of slight condescension, as if Pan would never have deigned to be hurt, but it was unmistakably an expression of concern. Hook almost smiled. "Don't start worrying about me now, or you'll be devastated to realize how many times you've tried to kill me before."

  "I owe you," Pan said defensively. "I don't care if you die after I pay you back."

  "Rest assured that I have no plans to die either before or after."

  "We'll see about that." It probably would have been threatening, except that there was no bite in Pan's voice. Maybe he was tired too; it wouldn't have surprised Hook if Pan's careless demeanor was meant to throw him off the scent.

  Well, Hook couldn't exactly fault him for that. Here he was growing wearier with every step yet doing his best to seem unaffected. He was afraid of Pan doing something chivalrous like offering to help him walk, and he couldn't imagine anything more embarrassing than having to lean on that young stick insect for support.

  The cave floor sloped down for a while, a damp and slippery decline that made it hard to keep their footing. Difficult for Hook, at least. Pan walked lightly, practically treading on air. Hook felt his way along the wall, trying to ignore the feeling that he was inevitably going to fall and die.

  It was almost a relief when his foot finally did catch on something, sending him sailing forward.

  Pan lunged caught him by the collar, stumbling to a halt with Hook tangled in his arms. "What was that?" Hook said, trying to turn around while Pan hastily released him.

  "You tripped," Pan said accusingly.

  "No, something tripped me." Hook picked up the match he'd dropped and edged up the slope. "There, look."

  There was a shallow stone slab set into the floor with a lip high enough for someone's shoe to snag on. "What's that?" Pan asked.

  Before Hook could even guess, Pan—the unbelievable fool—leaned over and pressed his palm to the slab.

  "Pan, don't—"

  At the press of Pan's hand, the slab sank down into the floor, and there was a deep grinding sound like stone being carved. Hook looked up in time to see an enormous boulder crashing through the ceiling and rolling down toward them. It was wide enough to fill the tunnel, with no avenue for escape.

  He seized Peter by the back of the shirt and yanked him down the passage, roaring, "Run!"

  There was no chance they would make it. They sprinted and slid wildly down the slope, barely staying on their feet, but the boulder gained second by second. There was no sign of an end to the slope. The matchstick in Hook's hand blew out, but in the moment before the light vanished, he saw a shallow alcove in the wall.

  Pan must have seen it at the same time. With the boulder just behind their heels, he spun and threw himself bodily against Hook, smashing them both into the alcove. The impact went through Hook's wounded shoulder like a fresh blade and he gasped, his vision spotting.

  When he came back to himself, he was breathing hard, and Pan was pressed into him. The boulder was crashing away down the passage. Hook felt the heat of Pan's breath on his cheek and his body, quite of its own accord, began to document the places where they were touching.

  Pan jerked back. Hook followed him from the alcove and lit his final match, grimacing as his shoulder throbbed. In the sudden light, Pan looked flushed and guilty.

  "Your shoulder," he began. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to…"

  "It's all right. You saved both our lives." Pan looked even more awkward at that. "It seems we're not meant to be here," Hook added. "Which is a good sign. Shall we?"

  There was a cavern at the bottom of the slope, larger than any they had stepped into before. The walls spread out far enough in both directions that it was impossible to determine their limits. Hook stopped in the doorway, unnerved by the vastness of it. Pan walked on, tipping his head up curiously.

  Hook followed his gaze and gasped. The roof of the enormous cavern was made of crystal, like the interior of a geode; the matchlight twinkled across it, a series of blinking stars in the dark.

  It was a moment before Hook realized why there was excitement building in his chest.

  "I know where we are," he said.

  Ten

  Peter spun around to see Hook staring up at the glittering ceiling, transfixed with wonder. "Where?" Peter demanded. "Can you find us a way out?"

  "Maybe," Hook breathed. "I tried to find this place for years. The dread pirate Red Dog laid his hoard of treasure to rest in the crystal caves below the island, according to his old cabin boy. We hunted and hunted, but never managed to find the entrance. All the wealth he amassed over a lifetime of piracy is supposed to be kept hidden in this place."

  Peter's excitement faded. "If you've never been here before… doesn't that mean we're even more lost?"

  Hook waved him off. "That's not the point."

  "That is the point. Treasure's all very well, but I'm starving."

  "We'll find something to eat," Hook said. He t
ook a further step into the cavern, matchlight weaving as he swung it out to illuminate more of the cave. He winced when he moved his arm but barely seemed aware of it, his eyes shining. "Don't you understand? All the riches you've ever seen pale in comparison to Red Dog's wealth, Pan, and we've stumbled upon it by accident. It must be fate."

  He grinned, and in spite of himself, Peter felt a reluctant grin creeping onto his face in return. He had never seen Hook so purely excited; there was something almost youthful about him as he gazed up at the sparkling ceiling.

  Peter was still uncomfortably conscious of how badly he had jarred Hook's wounded shoulder, and Hook's visible pallor made it hard to believe he was as lively as he sounded. "Are you sure you don't need a rest?"

  "When did you get so thoughtful?" Hook asked. "Come on. There's supposed to be five entrances to the large cave—four, excluding the one we came in—and a carving somewhere that indicates the passage leading to the treasure."

  He set off before Peter could protest. Peter followed him, rubbing his arms in the cold. "What if he hid his fortunes in a different crystal cave?"

  "Shut up and help me look." Hook glanced over his shoulder, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. "If you must know, finding the treasure will find us the way out. Red Dog's cabin boy said there was a secret passage leading directly to the treasure room—and that it could be found somewhere in the forest."

  Peter quickened his pace, his heart leaping. "Why didn't you say so?"

  "Because I enjoy listening to you complain like a petulant child."

  Peter considered kicking him.

  The crystal cavern was so large it took them at least half an hour of walking along one wall to discover a second passage leading out. Hook crouched on the floor and studied it for any sign of a symbol that would indicate it lead to the treasure room, but was unsatisfied, so they continued.

  They repeated this process several times over, and Peter started to feel uneasily that the cave might go on forever. When they reached the fifth passage, which had caved in and was equally unmarked, even Hook began to look a little crestfallen. The remaining color had drained from his face as they walked. It was hard to tell whether they had circled all the way around to where they had come in.

  "Why don't we try going down the other passages?" Peter asked.

  "I suppose we may have to," Hook said. "But the other entrances were supposed to be trapped as well."

  "I can handle traps."

  "I know you're prepared to fight your way through anything, but there is something to be said for thinking before you sprint off into danger," Hook retorted. "We don't know how long any of the tunnels are. They might go for miles in the wrong direction, and we've hardly any light left."

  "Fine. So how do we figure out which is the right one?"

  Hook didn't answer. He was looking haggard. He rubbed at his chin, where the beard was getting overgrown. "I don't know," he admitted. "Do you think those mushrooms are poisonous?"

  Peter followed his gaze to the clusters of white mushrooms growing along the wall. "I think I've seen Ernest pick these," he said, crouching. He was a little doubtful, but the fringed cap on the mushrooms looked identical. He plucked one, studied it briefly, and popped it into his mouth.

  "Good Lord," Hook said. "There's no more antidote, you know."

  Peter chewed. The mushroom had a flaky texture and tasted nutty, and to his empty stomach, it was delicious. "I think they're fine."

  "You would think so. I'll wait and see if you keel over, thank you."

  Peter shrugged and picked a few more. After a resentful pause, Hook sighed and squatted beside him, picking a few mushrooms of his own.

  "If you keel over, I'll die anyway," he muttered. "I may as well die with a full stomach."

  He sank fully to the floor, nibbling on the mushrooms. It was hard to tell in the low light, but his skin looked shiny. Peter stopped himself from reaching out and feeling Hook's forehead; he was afraid of finding it feverish.

  "Your shoulder—" he began.

  "I'm trying not to think about it," Hook said.

  Peter took a nervous breath. "Let me see it," he said. "You need to sit down for a while anyway."

  "I can't stand this new conscientiousness of yours," Hook said, but without feeling. He looked wretched.

  Peter took the match, crouching in front of him as Hook removed his coat.

  His heart clenched. Hook's white shirt was soaked in drying blood from the left shoulder down to the breast. Beneath the torn shirt, Peter could see the outline of the gash his knife had made. It was bleeding sluggishly still, probably because Peter had slammed him against a wall. It was not particularly deep, yet it was angry and swollen, blackened blood welling from the wound.

  Their eyes caught. "I've had worse," Hook said.

  "You should have bandaged it," Peter said. "Why didn't you?"

  "For one thing, I don't have a bandage. For another, why didn't I secure a bandage around my shoulder by matchlight with one hand and a hook?" Hook arched his eyebrows. "I wonder."

  "You could have asked me to do it."

  "Could I have?"

  "Yes." Peter felt a spike of anger; he wanted Hook to trust him. "We're working together, remember? And I owe you."

  A little smirk curled the corner of Hook's mouth. "Indeed," he said. "Well, have at it."

  His movements were stiff as he began to peel off his shirt. Peter moved in to help him when it became obvious that he was struggling to lift his injured arm above his head, and snagging the cloth on his claw. Hook's shirt was fine, silky linen, and warm in Peter's hands.

  It somehow hadn't occurred to Peter that this step, undressing Hook, would be necessary. He was suddenly full of nerves, his stomach doing flips. He almost wanted to take his offer back, but he could hardly do that. It wasn't that he didn't want to touch Hook, exactly—he did, if only because dressing the wound would feel a little like undoing the damage he'd done.

  He let the match smolder on the floor beside Hook's knee, its faint light wavering over them both. It was bright enough for Peter to make out more than the wound. He tore his eyes quickly away from the dark hair that scattered across Hook's chest and down his belly, although it looked soft enough to touch.

  "I can't believe I'm letting you near an open wound," Hook said lightly. "I've seen the squalor you and your Lost Boys live in."

  "Shut up." Even Peter could see that there wasn't exactly a hygienic solution. He'd have to focus on the bleeding for now and worry about everything else later.

  For lack of other materials, he took a sleeve from Hook's shirt and tore it into a long strip. Hook gasped in protest, but Peter ignored him.

  The Lost Boys had gotten into all kinds of perilous situations, and had to work with makeshift bandages to heal many wounds. Peter was used to that. He wasn't used to the unusual heat that Hook's skin seemed to radiate, or to the way he felt himself flushing as if in response as he edged close enough to wind the bandage over Hook's shoulder. His fingers brushed across the upper curve of Hook's arm, and Peter jumped.

  He's real, he thought.

  He pulled the bandage tight, and Hook gave a muted groan from behind clenched teeth. "Sorry," Peter said.

  "It's all right," Hook said. "I'd rather be down here and wounded than… not." It didn't sound like he'd meant to say not, but rather trailed off from something weightier. Peter glanced at him and didn't know what to make of Hook's expression. He was watching Peter's hands as he tied off the bandage.

  "Why?" Peter asked.

  "Why would I rather be stuck underground with the wretched youth who's been trying to kill me since his return to Neverland, rather than being free and whole in the world outside?"

  "Yes."

  Hook looked abashed. "Well, for all that went wrong, it's been quite a lot more exciting since you came back."

  "It was fun," Peter found himself saying. "When it was just the two of us fighting."

  "Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Hook caught his ey
e, and Peter backed away from a feeling he didn't understand. He sat on the ground, watching Hook shift and lean against the cave wall with a wince.

  The tattered remains of Hook's shirt lay on the ground between them.

  "It's awfully cold," Hook said.

  "I wish we could make a fire," Peter said. "It'd be hard to cook a fish even if I found one."

  "I have flint in one of these pockets," Hook said. "I didn't anticipate being somewhere without any wood."

  "I'll look for something flammable," Peter said, getting to his feet. "Maybe that pirate captain left something." Mostly he didn't want to sit there and think about the moment they'd shared. He leaned forward to take the match from Hook. "You should rest."

  "I'll sing," Hook said, "in case you have trouble finding your way back."

  Peter set off with Hook's low voice humming away behind him.

  For a while he kept to the chamber's edge, feeling his way along the wall and finding nothing. Then it occurred to him that there was a whole vast unexplored space in the center of the cavern, where they had not really ventured. Already Hook sounded far away, yet Peter hadn't even stepped out from the wall.

  Peter turned toward the blackness and started out, and immediately knew why they hadn't done so before. It was deeply unpleasant to walk away from the wall into the dark; the cavern was empty, nothing but cold slippery stone and starry crystal above. It felt like walking across a frozen sea at night. The fading of Hook's singing behind him only made him more unsettled, and he found himself straining his ears to try to hear it better. There was no other sound.

  Then, ahead, he saw huge, skeletal fingers stretching toward him. Peter crept slowly forward and the fingers became bare black tree branches.

  The tree was enormous. It stretched up toward the glittering ceiling, and might have touched it; it went too high to see. It was dead, and dry as bone. Its trunk was perforated with snaking tunnels, as if it had been eaten from the inside out.

  As Peter approached, he stumbled over something that rolled away with a clatter. Looking down, he saw the ground littered with broken branches.